


The Seeker & the Sociopath

by startrekto221B



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chaptered, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gryffindor John, M/M, Potions, Potions Accident, Potter!Lock, Potterlock, Professor!Sherlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Teacher-Student Relationship, Triwizard Tournament, student!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 44,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the youngest ever Potions Master in Hogwarts history, universally hated by the student population, and considered an arrogant upstart by most of the other teaching staff. Kept busy by his posh, ministry employed brother Mycroft, he is under orders to report back any suspicious activity he sees related to this year's Triwizard Tournament. </p><p>Trouble seems to be attracted to the young Hogwart's champion Mr. John Watson. Danger is in the air when the Beauxbatons champion the lovely, part veela Miss Irene Adler comes to take part and the mysterious Durmstrang Champion a Mr. James Moriarty takes an abnormal interest in Professor Holmes. </p><p>And of course no tournament could take place without the ministry's representative from the Auror office, the Chosen one--Harry Potter himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifty Points from Gryffindor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [El buscador & el sociópata](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226376) by [MyLittleSecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleSecret/pseuds/MyLittleSecret)



> Harry Potter AU: Hope you like it!

“Completely subpar. Mr. Beckett you have mistaken beetroot for bee’s wax,” the young potions master glanced at the grey mass bubbling in the 7th year’s cauldron and huffed impatiently.

He continued down the row, observing the concoctions of a simple healing draft, marveling at the fact that these students had supposedly achieved an Outstanding O.W.L. in potions in order to advance to his course. Not one of their attempts had the pale purple color and slightest ginger odor of the example he had brewed early this morning. What was more, a few students had neglected to even show up. Fools, he thought, probably expected he would let them off their afternoon lesson for a Quidditch match.

Given that he was perhaps the youngest Hogwarts professor in its history, students had initially expected certain flexibility and rapport. Sherlock however quickly had made sure there would be nothing of the sort. He hadn’t wanted to be back here at all, if he was perfectly honest with himself. He had been of studying wand-lore and dragonology abroad, taking cases, and inventing his own spells. Being something of a ‘consulting potioneer’ at times. All great fun. Invigorating even. Then Mycroft, his annoyingly posh ministry employed brother, had called him back to England, the Triwizard Tournament was to take place this year, and he needed someone trustworthy at Hogwarts for when it happened. Who better than Sherlock to apply for the conveniently vacated position of Potions Master (he more than suspected Mycroft of pulling some strings)? After all, he had been a prodigy while at school. Easily outstripping even the other Ravenclaws. Submitting articles to _Paradoxes in Potioneering_ and corresponding with the most respected experimental sorcerers of the day.

But it was only later that he had discovered that there was far more to being Potions Master than potioneering. Being only twenty two and something of a fascination to the student population he quickly learned it was preferable to be hated and respected rather than loved and trampled over. It was fine with him, snark and offhand rudeness had always been his style anyway. Playing the charming young professor would have been way too taxing. He needed his faculties sharp for illegal spell invention. One could never tell when experimental magic might go wrong.

As he was considering his latest blinding spell, an incantation he had been working on for quite some time, he heard the sound of several boys thundering down the stairs to the dungeons, the clatter of Quidditch equipment against the narrow walls.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor for your lateness I should think,” he commented dryly, “Do any of you care to explain yourselves?”

“Fifty?” a few hissed angrily.

“Who does he think he is?” one whispered to another.

But only the tall, fair-haired one, Mr. Watson, _Captain_ Watson, Sherlock remembered, spoke directly to him, “We’re sorry sir, it won’t happen again. Only, I’d like to take the blame. As captain it was my job to get the others here on time. I failed. Don’t take away points from all of Gryffindor, if you want I’ll take a dozen detentions, be Filch’s permanent assistant for a month.”

“That was very altruistic of you,” Sherlock sneered, “But I’m afraid that won’t be necessary. Your triumphs on the field earn your house points and your disappointments shall have the opposite consequence. Now, if you would, get to work on today’s assignment. Your lateness does not excuse you. Unless of course you took a bludger to the head and it prevents you from the level of thinking required for this exact art.”

“No sir,” Watson put his things by an empty cauldron and began flipping his book to the right page.

Sherlock laughed to himself. Gryffindors. Always doing the daring thing. Taking the blame. Ridiculous. He wondered to himself whether they had won the match or lost. From the dirt pattern on Watson’s robes he suspected the boy had taken a steep dive into the ground to catch the snitch. He wasn’t that late either, so it must have been a quick victory.

He resumed his leisurely walk around the room, planning the final demonstration of the lesson deviously. He first made a big show of dumping his own sample of the healing draft down the drain, and then clapped his hands together to silence the class.

“I am going to offer you a chance to redeem yourselves today, test your skills if you will, if one of you is willing to volunteer their potions to me, I will drop my hand into the Scalding Solution in this cauldron, if your concoction works I shall feel no pain, my hand will appear to glow blue, and you will gain 50 points, if you lose and I am scalded I shall make the rest of your lives hell. So anyone up for it?” he laughed.

For a moment there was silence as the students considered his offer. Mr. Watson snorted at the theatrics. Professor Holmes had probably put some sort of protective spell on his own arm, it would only appear to burn, and he would get the satisfaction of humiliating a student without any actual pain. After a few more moments in which it seemed that no one would volunteer a meek Hufflepuff raised her hand.

Sherlock took a flask and dipped it in her cauldron, then drank a generous mouthful. He then gently lowered his hand into the bubbling water, sure that his own charm would work and protect him. After all, the potion hadn’t tasted right; it wouldn’t cause the blue glow that would stopper the pain. And he wasn’t such a fool as to risk harm to himself over a simple display.

The students waited eagerly, Sherlock watched Watson stirring his own potion in the back, the only one who seemed to know that Sherlock would not be in any real danger of burning his hand off.

It started off well enough, the charm seemed to be holding, but there must have been something in the incorrectly brewed potion to counteract it. Damn, he cursed as he realized what was about to happen.

Then he began to scream, drawing out his hand as large burns began to spread along it, accelerating rapidly up his forearm.

None of the students seemed to know what to do, and Sherlock himself felt his judgment clouded by the shooting pain. He remembered falling to the floor, clutching his arm in exquisite agony as several students ran out, desperate to not be found responsible or caught in the web of his likely rage. Only Mr. Watson dipped a flask his own cauldron, filled it and ran to his side. He propped Sherlock up with his arm and brought the pale purple liquid to his lips. Smelling ginger, Sherlock felt a wave of relief go over him as he drank.

“You know that was really stupid of you, to risk yourself like that just for the chance to scare them,” Watson said as the pain began to subside and Sherlock’s arm healed and glowed blue.

“Detention, Mr. Watson,” Sherlock sputtered.

Watson looked shocked, “What in god’s name did I do now?”

“I’m taking your deal, detention with me, and I’ll give you the 50 points back. Your potion did work after all,” he stood up and regained his composure, “By the way, congratulations on winning the match and catching the snitch in under seven minutes.”

“How did you possibly know that?” Watson asked.

“Easy,” he smirked, “Mud pattern on your robes, suggests the angle at which you dived to the ground to catch it. The time it took you to get here suggests 6-7 minute match. I’m guessing someone in Gryffindor took a bludger to the head, bled a little. Probably Mr. Rawlins, you have some of his blood on your robes, around the shoulder, he is a bit shorter than you.”

“That was amazing,” the 7th year laughed.

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock remarked.

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off,“

 

 


	2. A Study In Experimental Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the Triwizard Tournament John shows up for his first detention with Professor Holmes. Though adamant not to volunteer as Hogwarts Champion, his fate seems to be nearly inevitable. And in the midst of it all, the man who defeated Lord Voldemort is worried that something treacherous may be at the heart of this tournament, dark enough to rival the events that unfolded when he himself competed those many years ago.

Sherlock sat at the desk in his office, hands steepled under his chin, anxious for the Watson boy to arrive. He regarded the letter on his desk as he waited; getting a notch more annoyed every second, as even the words on the page reeked of Mycroft’s odd combination of disappointment, worry and frustration for his younger brother.

Yet the large black embossed Ministry ‘M’ at the top of the letter and the small note at the bottom indicating that it was from the ‘Office of the Senior Undersecretary for the Minister of Magic’ brought a slight smile to his face. Sherlock knew that his brother was far more than a mere undersecretary at the place; he practically ran the ministry behind closed doors.

_Sherlock, word has reached me of the unfortunate ‘Scalding Solution’ incident. If you could kindly refrain from such theatrics in the future that would be much appreciated. If it is at all possible for you to keep a ‘low profile’ so to speak, and restrain from showing off for the time being please make every effort._

_As you likely already know the Triwizard Tournament is to begin soon, I shall be coming down to the school myself in time for the first task at which point I shall explain why I have had you take this position. The head of the Auror Office will be meeting with the rest of the staff before the opening ceremonies and I want you to take well to him. He may be pivotal to the plot unfolding ahead. Try not to be your usual self; I do not need an enemy in the famous Harry Potter. Burn this letter after you read it, do not reply. –MH_

With a lazy flick of his wand, Sherlock leaned back in his chair as the letter crumpled into ashes. Typical of Mycroft to be so ridiculously cryptic, he sighed.

“Come in,” he addressed the knock at the door.

“Professor Holmes,” Mr. Watson sat down.

“John, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, “Muggle-born. You were a hat-stall.”

“You remember that?” John asked incredulously.

“No, I deduced it, between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor,” Sherlock got up, “How do you feel about experimental magic?”

“It’s illegal,” John replied.

Sherlock sighed, pacing quicker about the room, “Yes, yes, I know that. But how do you _feel_ about it? Have you ever tried it? Have you ever wanted to try it?”

“Yes,” John said finally, “On occasion…where is this leading up to?”

“I need an assistant,” the professor sat back down, “Someone who’ll help me try these spells.”

“You want to experiment on me?” John asked.

“Not necessarily, no. At times you would cast the incantation on me. You thought pretty quickly back there in the dungeons. And I am extremely confident that the spells do work the way I intended them too,” he tried to sound reassuring.

John considered the offer in his head. Anyone else in their right mind would have turned and run. But John _liked_ the chance of something going wrong. The adrenaline. It was something he always found on the Quidditch pitch, in the last seconds before he caught the snitch. Perhaps Professor Holmes had seen that.

“Alright, fine,” he said, “But I get to veto anything I think is too dangerous.”

“Fair enough, how about this blinding spell?” and before John had time to prepare himself, Sherlock cast the charm in his mind.

 _Excaecari_ _._ Sherlock thought fiercely.

In an instant John’s world went black. One second there was tall, dark haired Professor Holmes staring at him with those piercing blue eyes and when the image came back Sherlock’s nose was half an inch from his face and he had a strange, crazed look on his face.

“Did it work?” he asked, excitedly, “Did you lose sight of me for a second there?”

“Yeah,” John’s head ached a bit, “Just for a second.”

“Excellent!” the taller man jumped up, “Good, good. Now cast it on me. It’s ‘Excaecari’, get the pronunciation right.”

John glanced at the clock in corner, “Sorry, got to dash, our half hour’s up. See you tmrw, Professor Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please,” he found himself saying to his own surprise, “Professor Holmes is really formal.”

As John waved and left the room in a hurry, Sherlock sat back down in triumph. Now the only thing he had to worry about was his meeting with Harry Potter. He would probably ask him to devise some clever tortures for the tasks. That should be fun. And anyway, he didn’t think there was a student in all of Hogwarts who could measure up to the horrors he could devise. Save perhaps, for one.

***

There was an immense commotion as John arrived in the drafty Divination classroom.

“What did he make you do? Dissect dead animals for ingredients? Run through the grounds looking for poisonous herbs?”

“Does he still have that creepy shrunken head in his office?”

“What about that dragon eye?”

“Honestly,” John said firmly, “It was rather boring. All I did was write lines.”

“Hey John,” his friend Mary Morstan crept closer to him on the bench, “Is it true you’re going to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“No, of course not,” John sighed, “Who’s been saying that? I wouldn’t do that in a million years. I’m not nearly the best in our year. Hogwarts deserves a champion that can win.”

The class quickly settled to their assignment for the day, and John was relieved that his experience with Professor Holmes was no longer a topic of interest. He opened up _Unfogging the Future_ and began taking some notes on his parchment.

And even though he was quite clear with it himself, that he wasn’t going to volunteer, as he peered into his foggy crystal ball he could almost make out the slightest outline of a large, flaming cup.

***

“You know I’ve never liked Potions Masters,” Ron said as they descended the staircase to the dungeons, “First Snape, then Oakley, now Holmes. They always have something weird up their sleeve.”

“Snape was a hero, Ron,” Harry reminded him, “And there’s nothing wrong with being a little weird. Look at Luna and Rolf.”

“Yeah they’re okay, I suppose, she wrote to Hermione that they finally found a Crumple Horned Snorkack in Romania, I still think it was some sort of irregular rhino…” Ron said.

“We don’t want this tournament to turn out like mine, mate. And we need all the ears we can get. This Sherlock, he’s supposed to be a genius, and Mycroft said we could trust him,” Harry explained.

“I know that, Hermione mentioned him once, I think,” he stopped walking as they stood in front of the door to the familiar office.

“Professor Holmes?” Harry knocked twice, “It’s the Auror Office, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, you were told to expect us,”

There was a rustle from the other side. And if he hadn’t known the man had been dead for years Harry could have sworn the deep, dry, voice from behind the door saying, “Potter, Weasley, come in,” was Severus Snape.


	3. The Memory Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any day now the Triwizard Tournament will begin, but before then it is up to Sherlock to devise the horrors that the champions will face within it. But how will he measure up to the horrors in his own past, unintentionally revealed by a memory spell of his own invention?

“Your reputation precedes you,” Sherlock gestured for them to sit down as they came in, sweeping some ingredients on his desk briskly out of the way.

“Yours too,” Ron offered awkwardly, “Not in a bad way I mean. I mean experimentalism rumors aside, that stuff with the—“

“Yeah, cutting to the point,” Harry lowered his voice, “We do need you to help design some of the obstacles for the tournament. I’m afraid I’ll have to modify your memory when you’re finished though, according to tournament regulation.”

“I see,” Sherlock watched them curiously, “But why me in particular? And, just how frightening are we talking about here?”

“We had an odd request come in earlier this year,” Harry confessed, “Word has traveled North of your role as a consultant in the chimaera slaying last year. Your brother tried to keep your involvement under wraps of course, but there are those who want to see a similar level of…well…”

“Potency,” the professor began to pace, quickening his step with every word, “That’s the word you’re looking for. Potency of magic, oh I have some ideas already, oh this will be fun. Yes.”

“Now remember we don’t want anyone hurt or anything. I’m all for challenges but I’d hate to see a bloke lose an arm or a leg,” Ron pointed out, slightly dismayed at Sherlock’s apparent enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes of course,” Sherlock said dismissively, “No deaths, no permanent injuries, I got this lecture when they signed me on as a professor.”

“So you’ll be willing to do it then?” Harry asked.

He grinned rather manically, “Willing to do it? I daresay I’ll enjoy it.”

As Harry laid out the rules for him, Sherlock’s mind raced every which way. To dragons and monsters and mental games. To physical tests and emotional drains and potioneering problems. Oh the potioneering things he could bring in to this. Only a truly great wizard could even attempt the challenge he would create. Only the greatest could defeat it.

At the conclusion of the meeting he showed them out, observing a number of things about their clothing and mannerisms and revealing to himself several classified details about recent auror missions that he would file away for later use. Maybe these details were relevant to the ‘plot’ ahead. In any case, they would make good ammunition to annoy Mycroft for sure. What ministry could pride itself on secrecy when half of its evidence walked out the door on the dirt patterns of robes and the softest afterglow of very, _very_ specific defensive spells? He smiled smugly.

“I knew he was a psychopath,” Ron said quietly to Harry as they filed out, “Did you see how he raved when you mentioned that you could get him a batch of fire crabs?”

“High functioning sociopath, you would think aurors at least would do their research,” Sherlock grumbled to himself as the door closed behind them, “Though from what I’ve read about _them_ that was always Granger’s department. Typical. Muggle borns always do try harder.”

***

Monday had quickly become John’s favorite day, which was uncommon for a student. Weekly detentions with Sherlock though, were more than worth the annoyance of a full day of classes after Sunday’s break, and he found he learned more from the man in an hour than any of his other teachers taught him all week.

He found himself alarmingly good at performing the new spells, and a touch relieved every time they worked. Sherlock for his part, seemed to have a whole different side when given the chance to discuss magic. And though at times John could maybe pick out the meanings of only one or two of the words Sherlock used when talking about wand-lore, he still acted as if it was tremendously interesting. Because of the way in which Sherlock said it, he was sure it was.

Last detention Sherlock had told him that the next time would take a bit longer than usual, the spell acted over five minutes, and the aftereffects might take far longer to wear off. He had postphoned Quidditch practice, something he had never done before, and was anxious to see what he would deal with down in the dungeons.

“You were a Ravenclaw when you were here right?” John asked as he came in, “Didn’t it ever annoy you, when you really wanted to get it in, and the damn thing kept asking you a question?”

“How do you know that? Did you try to break in?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “You know I am a professor, John. I can’t let you go around breaking rules, even if you are helping me with this.”

John snorted, “You wouldn’t do that. You love breaking rules. But no, I was looking for the Ravenclaw captain, and she told me to come meet her at the tower. Took me five minutes to solve that riddle. I can’t even imagine doing that _every_ time.”

“This is why the hat ended up putting you in Gryffindor John, some people love learning just for learning. You’re smart but only because you want to put it to use. There’s the difference,” Sherlock read over his notes on the new spell as he spoke.

“I suppose so,” John leaned over to read the letters upside down, “Memory spell, eh?”

“Sort of the opposite of _Obliviate_ , this one clears your mind, makes old memories clearer. Might even spur you to relive an old one.” Sherlock explained, “You want to try me or should I try you?”

“I’ll do it on you, but how can I make sure its working? That your memories are really getting clearer. Or will you be able to tell?” John grabbed the papers and read some more about the theory behind the incantation.

“You can use _Legilimens_ just to be sure. Look in my mind,” Sherlock said briskly.

“I thought you said you were an extremely powerful Occlumens?” John asked.

“Well I won’t block against you now will I? I’ve just told you to do it. Honestly, John .” Sherlock laughed.

“Alright, alright, “ John said, “Right. Here goes. _Vestibulum_ _memoria._ ”

The effect was immediate. A jet of blue sparks shot out from John’s wand and directly hit Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock braced himself against the chair he was sitting in, and felt a sudden surge of mental activity.

He remembered a dark house by the lake. Mycroft in trousers and a checkered shirt. His mother baking in the kitchen. His father coming home late after a long day’s work at the ministry. My god, he could remember the way his father had looked. All those years ago. This was exciting. Everything was so clear. Clearer than it had been in years.

Now there was him in the kitchen. Him in the living room. _No, don’t go to the living room, Sherlock. Not there. Not this memory now. Not when John’s here. Not. No._

He saw his father on the couch with a woman. Mother? Not mother. Why not mother? What are they doing? _No._ Mycroft?

Blur. The yelling. Mother threw a dish. Broken shards, scratched tile. The fighting. More fighting. Every day. I wish he wouldn’t come home anymore. He doesn’t. _Why did I wish that?_ The divorce. Mycroft hands me down that checkered shirt. Blur. Redbeard’s funeral. Crying. Lots of crying. Skipped school. Peanut butter sandwich. Uneaten. Buried the pirate sword. Mycroft leaves home. School. _God no, not school._

Then it’s over. Sherlock opens his eyes and realizes that he is sweating, “If you could note that the spell happens to cause on to relive and find greater clarity in not just old memory but a person’s umm…worst…memory that would be…well…”

“I’ve noted it yeah,” John said uneasily, “Still brilliant though, it worked,”

“Yes it was rather brilliant wasn’t it,” Sherlock looked away, “Say, umm, how much of that did you—“

“Oh not much, practically nothing,” John said quickly.

“I’m guessing you’d rather not I try you then, now that we know,” Sherlock remarked as he made his own notes about the spell, including the headache that seemed to be an annoying after effect, “Though I’m afraid I’m rather tired out now. So, next week?”

John shook his head, “You can try it on me first thing then next week. For consistency’s sake, and besides, that way it’s fair.”

“Oh that won’t be necessary, given that you didn’t see anything at all, _Mr._ Watson,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Right, yeah, of course, _Professor_ Holmes, I guess I’ll see you at the banquet then, when the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students get here,” he retorted.

“Yes, yes you will,” Sherlock rubbed his temples to try and ease his headache.

Despite himself he was curious as to why the boy had volunteered himself even after seeing what the spell had done to Sherlock. And anyway, the whole experience had been tediously embarrassing. What would John think of him now, brilliant Professor Holmes, crying about a dead dog? Discovering his father— _well let’s not think about that again._ Oh well, the Triwizard Tournament would take him off of John’s mind anyway. What with the distractions of the choosing of the champions and the Yule Ball and the Tasks. Oh yes the task, he pulled out his plans so far and smiled.

 _Vestibulum_ _memoria_ would make a nice addition to his master design. Harry had said after all, to make the task “memorable”.


	4. The Holmes Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All eyes are on beautiful part Veela Irene Adler while the Goblet of Fire is finally unveiled. Sherlock insists John is nothing but another of his students, while Mycroft reveals that the tournament is nothing like it appears to be on the surface.

It was possibly the most important gathering of people the Gryffindor boys had ever witnessed. Longtime minister for magic Kingsley Shacklebolt had come, along with his ever present undersecretary Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The ‘big three’ who had engineered the fall of Voldemort were there, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger united at Hogwarts for the first time in years. But they might as well have been invisible, because all eyes rested on one unknown Beauxbatons witch with the bewitching eyes and porcelain skin, drawn in by her almost otherworldly charm.

Whispers of “part veela” and “more beautiful than Headmistress Delacour” ran through the hall. And even John found himself craning for a look.

Only Professor Holmes at the teacher’s table seemed to think all this beneath him, and didn’t even return the winning smile she flashed him as she took her seat.

“Who is she?” he asked Mycroft, who had taken the seat to his immediate right.

“Irene Adler,” Mycroft replied, “Most likely champion. In any case she has far more up her sleeve than physical charms alone.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock glanced at her again, trying to deduce as much as he could about who she was, where she had been, “Quite promiscuous?”

“Obviously,” his brother nodded, “Only child. Female lover. We could go on, but I don’t want you to miss out on our Durmstrang fellows, given your preference.”

“I don’t have a _preference_ ,” Sherlock scoffed, “And I’ve already deduced them. No one seems like much of a threat. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Right, still married to your work I see,” Mycroft surveyed the room, “And you’ll see in time, brother mine. I didn’t bring you here for nothing.”

While this conversation had went on Harry had unveiled the famous Goblet to the general warranted “oohs” and “aahs” of the student populations of the three schools. And for once, Sherlock found himself equally impressed as the masses. He himself was quite fascinated with the ancient magic governing it, and perhaps Harry would let him have a look at it when it was all over, since he was doing a rather excellent job with the first task.

Headmaster Longbottom then began a rousing speech of welcome to the foreign delegations, as Sherlock found himself distracted by a few Durmstrang boys that had slipped into the hall. One of them in particular seemed to have taken particular care to protect himself. Sherlock could see the trace aura of several protective spells. Perhaps this was Durmstrang’s champion?

As Longbottom concluded Mycroft rose to announce the rules. Sherlock looked around the hall for John, and found himself wishing quite irrationally that he could be seated next to him. Of course that could never happen. He was a teacher after all. And he had made quite clear when they concluded their last session that he saw John as nothing more than another student.

He had even reinforced the notion at his regular potions lesson yesterday evening. John had slipped up and called him ‘Sherlock’ in front of the other students and Sherlock had been forced to take off 10 points for good measure. He couldn’t be caught being ‘friends’ with a student, Sherlock had explained after class. He didn’t have friends, he had said. He could have sworn that John had seemed the tiniest bit disappointed. Oh well, he thought. Friends had never really been his area anyway.

“So, are you going to tell me what this is really about?” Sherlock asked as his brother returned from the podium.

“They’re going to dismiss for a bit of a social here in a second, your office?” Mycroft suggested.

“Acceptable,” Sherlock nodded, and found himself catching Irene Adler’s eye again, “She’s been staring at me for a while now.”

“Meet with her. If she’s interested in you, use it,” Mycroft said quickly, “I will require all the data and leverage I can get.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sherlock got up as Longbottom closed the ceremony, “Dungeons, now.”

Passing the Gryffindor table on their way out Sherlock nodded curtly to acknowledge John’s wave, “Mr. Watson.”

“Friend of yours?” Mycroft asked curiously.

“Please,” Sherlock laughed, “Student. But a very good one. Helping me with the experimental work.”

“He’s considered a favorite to be the Hogwarts Champion,” Mycroft sighed, “And you really can’t lay off the experimentalism. Even while you’re here?”

“Favorite? I’ve asked him. He’ll never put his name in,” Sherlock replied.

“Ah the dungeons,” Mycroft took in the dampness, dark and the distinct smell of potioneering ingredients, “You must love it here.”

“All thanks to you,” Sherlock showed his brother into his office, snapped the door shut and put a spell on it so no one could listen in, “Now, if you would.”

“The tournament this year is a farce,” Mycroft began, “It’s a cover up, essentially, for the discovery I made last June. We found an extremely potent magical _artifact_ let’s say. Other ministries were quickly on the scene, so I bought myself the time I needed by saying the land up there was under our jurisdiction for use in the third and final task of the tournament now taking place. That gave me license to put an all manner of concealing spells on it, and chalk out a deal with the two other major claimants that didn’t buy my little excuse. In short Sherlock, the school’s whose champion gets to this object first—well their country gets to take it.”

“Why would you stake something so important on the skill of a few schoolchildren? That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s a tight spot diplomatically, and the object is the perhaps the greatest discovery since the twelve uses of dragon’s blood. Consequential enough to risk open conflict according to the minister. But my way is simpler. No bloodshed, and I can make sure we win.” Mycroft tapped his fingers on Sherlock’s desk.

“I see, you want me to coach the Hogwarts candidate into winning, assess the weaknesses of the competition for you,” Sherlock nodded in understanding, “ Should be manageable. I am creating the first task, after all. Though I won’t remember it in a few days.”

“That is in essence the work I intend for you to do, though I must warn you not to reveal the plot to anyone,” Mycroft stood up to leave.

“What is the object? Can you at least tell me what it does?” Sherlock implored.

“I’m afraid not little brother, some things must remain classified,” Mycroft flicked his wand to unlock the door, “And you know what happens when you discover secrets you weren’t meant to know,”

“That was years ago,” Sherlock said softly, looking down at the floor.

“And yet you have changed so little,”


	5. The Goblet of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last we come to the choosing of the champions, while Sherlock must wrestle both with what's right and with his brother's vision for the future.

“I told you Mary,” John insisted, “I haven’t even put my name in, it’s not going to be me,”

“Well you should have,” she smiled, “I can hardly think of anyone better,”

“It’s a risk is all,” John explained, “And I’m not entirely sure it’s worth it.”

“Have you thought about Hogsmeade with me on Monday?” she asked.

“I told you I have detention,” he replied.

“Detention? How do you _always_ have detention?” she said incredulously.

“I just keep messing up in his class,” John tried to casually shrug, “He makes me write lines for it,”

“Haven’t you heard about the things he’s done?” she whispered fiercely, “Well I have. For one thing the Holmes’ did some pretty dark things during the Second Wizarding War. His father was allegedly an auror working as a double agent. But some say he really was a death eater-- ”

“Rumors,” John huffed, “You know sometimes I’m dead thankful I’m muggle-born or I’d have to deal with rumors over what my family did or didn’t do in the war.”

“My father works in the ministry’s department for handling dangerous magical creatures, and I heard him say,” she lowered her voice, “Professor Holmes used experimental magic to slay a chimaera.”

“Bollocks,” John said bluntly, “That’s actually ridiculous.”

“You can ask him yourself,” she said smugly, “Maybe he’ll tell you, since he obviously has such a liking for you,”

“He does not have a liking for me,” John snapped, “But since you’re persistent, we’ll go Tuesday then,”

“There that wasn’t that hard was it,” she smiled deviously.

He laughed in spite of himself, “No it wasn’t was it.”

***

Sherlock watched the blue fire with anticipation. Any minute now it would glow red and spit out three strips of paper upon which rested the future of the Wizarding World. He hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise to him who it picked. He had watched the students putting their names in and deduced which among them was the strongest. For Hogwarts it was either Hufflepuff Bletchley or Slytherin Vincent, for Beauxbatons it was indisputably Miss Adler, and for Durmstrang it would surely be a close call between a Mr. Moriarty and a Mr. Moran.

He was a little shocked then, briefly surprised, and then angry, when Professor Longbottom caught the first slip in his hand and read “The Hogwarts champion…John Watson”

Glancing immediately at Mycroft, who was maintaining his usual placid, perfectly neutral expression, Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth a question to which he almost certainly knew the answer, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“It may have been, brother mine, but what’s it to you?” Mycroft didn’t even turn towards him.

“It is unlawful, this is a dangerous tournament, he could die, he didn’t even put his name in, he wants no part in this charade of yours!” Sherlock whispered heatedly.

“Don’t be so emotional Sherlock, you know how that taxes me,” the older brother straightened his tie, “Though I must say it is touching that you care so much for your students’ safety”

“Outside, now, if you don’t come I’ll blow the cover of your whole operation,” Sherlock leveled a glare at him.

“You don’t even want to see Adler and Moriarty picked? Very well Sherlock, but you are treading on matters of national security, far beyond your usual purview,” Mycroft’s tone was still even but he had drawn out his wand from its case and was now gripping it tightly, eying his younger brother for sudden movements.

Excusing themselves as discreetly as possible, the two brothers left the Great Hall, which was now filled with whoops and cheers over the choosing of the popular Quidditch Captain.

Only Sherlock was disgusted with the rampant display of jubilation, saying so the second they were alone outside, and after he had cast a spell against anyone who might be listening, “Fools, how can they be celebrating now that he’s been done in?”

“Don’t be so theatrical, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “If you must know I was hoping this might give you some incentive,”

“Incentive?” Sherlock gaped at him, “Incentive? What kind of incentive is this?”

“You seem to care for the boy, you certainly get on with him better than you have with anyone I’ve seen you with in years, if he’s champion you’d certainly invest yourself in his victory,” Mycroft pointed out.

“You know,” Sherlock said testily, “Not everyone is a chess piece for you to move around. You may be calling the shots but I will not help you put on this…this…puppet show…”

“You won’t have a choice,” Mycroft replied calmly, “The Goblet of Fire constitutes, what was the phrase, ah, yes, a binding magical contract. Watson must compete. And Hogwarts must win.”

Without thinking Sherlock whipped out his own wand and was about to cast a rather nasty curse when it was suddenly cast out of his hand.

“That was foolish Sherlock,” his brother held both wands in his hand, “Do you know how much of an incident it would cause if we were caught dueling out here. And anyway, you can’t duel when you’re emotional, certainly not against me.”

“Wand?” Sherlock asked, “Sorry, I wasn’t—“

“Thinking, no, you’ve been doing alarmingly little of that recently,” Mycroft tossed it back, “Now if you’ll excuse me I do have to be going back in, I’m sure I’ll have to explain away this little accident to Mr. Watson. But before I do, are we perfectly clear, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, “Go on in then, I wouldn’t want your marionettes to fall apart in your absence. You know, you sound more like father every day.”

“And you like mother, yet we must live with our choices, with who we choose to be,”

“She didn’t,”

“She was weak, she opted out, a fate I hope doesn’t befall you,”

“Better to be weak and good than strong and cruel,”

“That, brother mine, is where you’re wrong, the cruel may fall but the weak—“

“—never rise. Such is the way of the world. I know the saying, I just don't believe in it.”


	6. The Infamous Angelo's Conversation Had to Go In Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discuss the upcoming tournament.

“I suppose my brother has explained the mishap to you,” Sherlock said as John came in.

“He did yeah,” John sighed, “Harry Potter was furious though. I was sure there would be a row between them, actually, but there wasn’t, and I am now the Hogwarts Champion.”

“You seem like you’ve come to terms with being volunteered against your will,” Sherlock straightened the ingredient bottles on his desk, purposefully not meeting the eyes of the 7th year student.

“Griping won’t help my chances,” John replied.

“I can,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, “Sherlock look me in the eye, stop messing around with that parchment.”

Yet he wished he hadn’t demanded it. When their eyes met there was such guilt in the professor’s eyes that John could have sworn a burden beyond words lay buried beneath that brilliant, icy blue.

Sherlock gripped the edges of his chair earnestly, “I have to help you, John, I don’t remember it anymore, but my design for the first task is probably hell itself, and I didn’t know then that you—“

The older man got up and began pacing with his hands behind his back, “You have no idea the horrors I could have devised, forget the experimentalism, you’re going to come here every day and I’m going to tell you every horrific thing that pops into my mind and the best way to deal with it…That’s the only way…yes…”

“Why do you want to help me?” John asked.

Sherlock coughed uneasily, “Well I can’t have anything happen to my favorite student.”

“I’m your favorite student?” John laughed.

“Well seeing as I hate everyone else,” Sherlock said quite seriously, “And…um…seeing as your friends probably want to see you in the great hall…celebrate their champion…I’ll let you off for tonight”

“Actually I wanted to get away from the attention for a bit, do you mind if I stay here for a bit?” John admitted.

“Oh…that’s understandable, of course,” Sherlock tapped his fingers on the desk.

“Did you really slay a chimaera?”

“Short answer is yes, I’m afraid I can’t say anymore. Classified, courtesy of Mycroft.”

“Incredible.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, amazing. So, um, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? No. Witches aren’t really my area.”

“Warlocks then? Which is fine.”

“I know it’s fine. But no.”

“So solo like me. Cool.”

“You know John I’m flattered by your interest but I’m really not looking for any—“

“Oh no I wasn’t, I mean you’re great. But I’m not gay, and this tournament’s going on, and I wouldn’t think—I mean you’re a professor—“

“I understand John, though it might be best if we moved on,”

“Where do you live then, when you aren’t here?”

“I have a nice flat in London on Baker Street, and you?”

“The Watsons live in Godric’s Hollow,”

“But you don’t, you said ‘the Watsons’”

“I don’t like living at home, me and my dad, we don’t get on, never have,”

“Something we have in common then,”

“I know. I mean I don’t know—I didn’t see anything that would let me know, I mean, um, what kind of wand core do you have?”

“Dragon heartstring,”

“Unicorn hair,”

“Fascinating,”

Now it was John’s turn to tap his finger on his desk. This conversation was going nowhere, and it was because he was holding back the real reason he had wanted to talk to Sherlock, the only person he was sure would understand the gravity of the situation. He didn’t want to take part in this tournament. But he shouldn’t be feeling this way, he was a Gryffindor, he should be bold and happy for the challenge. Yet he got this sinking feeling in his stomach every time he thought of the first task ahead.

He took a deep breath and decided to just say it, “Sherlock if I’m a Gryffindor why am I so afraid of this tournament?”

Sherlock considered him carefully for several moments before saying, “First of all, you’d be a fool not to be. And secondly, being brave per se doesn’t mean you can’t acknowledge fear. It means you can overcome it to accomplish the task at hand. It’s quick-thinking, logic, rationality and common sense prevailing over something unknown, new or dangerous. The only kind of fear you should stifle John is irrational fear. But this fear is _completely_ rational.”

“Have you ever felt like you were holding the weight of the world on your shoulders?”

“More often than you might think,”

“You know I was looking up some complicated spell work last night, I can’t even cast half of it. I wish I was like you, _you_ would do great in this tournament.”

“Me? I can’t even cast a corporeal patronus, never quite been able to find a memory—well the point is you focus on what you _can_ do, and if you can do that really well, there’s no reason why you can’t do this.”

“You really can’t—“

“I don’t advertise it, but no, I can’t, never have, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t…well…”

“I won’t tell. Thanks for today. I mean, I feel a right sight better about all of this.”

“You might want to head out to the Great Hall before you miss the last of the feast,” Sherlock pointed out awkwardly.

“Right yeah,” John got up, “Tomorrow then?”

“Yes, be prompt, or I’ll dock points,”

“Nah, you won’t,”

“I could,”

“But you won’t,”

“Fine I won’t,” Sherlock watched the boy go, then drew out his wand.

Trying desperately to summon a happy memory he said ‘Expecto Patronum’ aloud to himself. No effect. Just some cloudy vapors. Ah well, the charm had never worked for him, why should it now? It was ridiculous to hope. A guardian could never arise from the emotions of a self-avowed sociopath. Besides, he didn’t need anyone to protect him anyway. He was alone. And alone had always protected him.


	7. Miss Adler of Beauxbatons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally meets Irene.

“What’s that?” John pointed to the list on Sherlock’s desk.

“That John, is the full catalogue of things I could have possibly have put in this task. Now if you would, there’s a few more pages. Just go through and circle the things you feel are most threatening.” Sherlock passed the papers to him.

John began looking down the list. Sphinx’s riddle. Airborne and Waterborne Poisons. Illusions. Spellcasting whilst enduring temporary blindness…it got worse and worse.

“Basically everything Sherlock,” John handed it back to him, “Where do we start?”

Sherlock dropped a spellbook on the desk with a thud, “I’ve put post-its on the pages with the most useful defensive spells. This is beyond N.E.W.T. level but they are incredibly versatile. This is your homework over the week, you can ask me if you have any difficulties.”

“So what are we going to do right now?” he opened up the dusty tome.

“We’re going outside, I have arranged for some creatures to be brought here for you to battle. The rest I can simulate by casting the appropriate spells on you myself. You might get singed or a bit banged up, but I’m pretty sure there won’t be any lasting damage.”

John sighed, so it had begun. Triwizard boot camp with Professor Peculiar.

***

Having spent hours out on the grounds with John, Sherlock was exhausted when he arrived back at his office, and altogether shocked when he found he wasn’t alone there.

“Professor Holmes,” a dark haired woman sat at his desk, dressed in blue Beauxbatons silk, smiling at him almost hungrily—Irene Adler, “It was wrong of you to keep me waiting.”

He sat down on the other side, the place where John usually sat and said rather sharply, “How did you possibly get in here?”

“I have my ways,” she crooned, leaning forward slightly, “And I happen to know that you designed the first task. In return for a favor I’m sure you’d love to tell me what’s in it.”

“I’m not sure I’m interested in the kind of favor you’d be offering,” he said as she reached forward and touched his cheek.

“Such sharp cheekbones. I could cut myself. Now, Professor Holmes, I’m sure there’s something I could offer you, information perhaps?” she said silkily.

Sherlock eyed her again. Definitely part veela. He could see it in her eyes. But there was something about her he found familiar. Like he had seen her somewhere before. Still, he couldn’t place it. The famous dueling club in France? Impossible. She was way too young, wasn’t she? Yet they always branded their members with an arrow tattoo at the waist, and that would be the only way to know for sure. So he had to see it. How could he see it without letting her know he was on to her? There was only one way.

He took a small breath and made a snap decision. He hoped to god he wouldn’t regret this.

Sherlock leaned across the desk, caressed Irene’s face with his right hand then pulled it close and kissed her.

She responded alarmingly rapidly, running her hands through his dark curls and kissing back, “I didn’t expect this Professor Holmes, not from what I’ve heard of you,”

“I’m full of surprises,” he unhooked her hair clip and let her shining brown locks tumble loose, hoping his exterior didn’t show how uncomfortable this act was making him.

But he didn’t have to lead the action anymore, as he soon discovered, Irene was clearly a professional in this at least. The way her tongue was attacking his mouth. The sheer amount of flexibility she demonstrated as she slid seamlessly over him from across the table. Other men who were not Sherlock would have been incredibly aroused. She undid his tie and loosened the top buttons of his shirt, running her hands anywhere and everywhere on him, and for a moment it really, genuinely scared him that he was letting her do this, until he saw his opportunity and remembered why he had gone and done this in the first place— _her dress, unbutton the dress, see the tattoo_.

He kissed her again as a distraction while he took his chance to unhook her dress from the back, and began unbuttoning just to the point where he could make out her waist. And there it was, the broken arrow. A professional duelist in the guise of a schoolgirl. He was going to kill Mycroft.

His moments hesitation after having seen it would have given it away if not from a clatter from behind.

“Sorry, I had just come to ask a question on—but I can’t believe that you, never mind,” John had dropped the book on a shelf and stormed out.

Sherlock sighed, this was an incredibly compromising position. Both of them half dressed, sprawled across his desk, passionately kissing. And her being John’s direct competition in this tournament. How was he possibly going to explain? His insides suddenly felt heavy.

She laughed almost coldly, “I’m sorry I scared off your boyfriend,”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sherlock said a tad defensively as he disentangled himself from her and began refastening various items of clothing, “I’m his teacher,”

“Teacher, eh? Even better, “ she eyed him knowingly, “But you want to be more, don’t you?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,”

“What? Now? Oh, but we were just starting to have fun. You say the word, Sherlock and I would take you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice.”

“I never beg.”

***

“John you’ve got to forgive me,” Sherlock plead earnestly.

He had even taken the risk of leaving the teacher’s table at breakfast simply to talk to John, and was now subject to the curious eyes of several young Gryffindors who were all either afraid of him, hated him, or both.

“She’s the competition. Have you been helping her too? You’re clearly romantically involved. So that was clearly a lie. ‘Witches aren’t my area’, ha. What else have you been lying to me about?” John whispered fiercely as he pulled Sherlock to the side.

“It was one time, I’ve never even spoken to her before, if you must know, I was trying to see her tattoo,” he explained.

“Her tattoo?”

“She’s a professional duelist. From a very famous club in France that brands all their members with arrow tattoos. I had a hunch that she was. So I had to check.”

“So you were using sex with a half-veela to see a tattoo. You want me to believe that,” John snapped, “I may not be a genius. But I’m not stupid.”

“It doesn’t matter to me that’s she’s half-veela, John. I’m only helping you in this tournament. Just trust me,” he begged.

“She’s the most beautiful woman anyone’s ever seen. Why wouldn’t you betray a kid you’ve known for a few months at most for a chance to—how am I supposed to trust you?” John demanded.

“John I know more than anyone how easily trust is lost. And I know more than anyone it’s not worth betraying someone who needs you over the chance to be with some woman,” Sherlock looked at his own feet and lowered his voice, “I’ll even drink veritaserum, I can brew it. If that’s what it takes.”

“No that won’t be necessary, Sherlock,” John patted him on the shoulder, “I…I believe you.”

“Thank you,” he raised his voice again so the other Gryffindors could here, “And I expect that paper on moonstones to be on my desk by tomorrow, just because your Hogwarts Champion doesn’t mean you can shirk schoolwork.”

“Yes, professor,” John then lowered his voice, “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, Forbidden Forest, it’ll be great,”

“Dark, scary and cold. Sounds positively smashing.”

“Some say _I’m_ dark, scary and cold. You’ve taken a liking to that.”

“So I have. To be fair though, I deserve some credit or reward. You’re not always an easy person to get on with.”

“Alright then, five points to Gryffindor.”

“You did not actually just do that,”

“I actually just did, Mr. Watson, are you implying an abuse of powers?”

“Nothing of the sort, Professor Holmes,”


	8. The Patronus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock discuss John's position in the tournament.

“The one thing I still don’t understand, is how she was possibly able to break into my office,” Sherlock paced around his desk.

“I let her in, thought you might be able to work something out of her,” Mycroft stated plainly.

“Well I got the one clue. And I did my research. Professional duelist. Real name unknown. Goes by ‘The Woman’ professionally. Six time All-Europe champion. Impeccable ability with curses. She can do things with a wand few of us even dream of,” Sherlock prattled on.

“You know hearing that I might say you were a little bit smitten with her,”

“Smitten, me? Ha. No, I don’t go for all of that. Too messy. Not worth it.”

“How are you progressing with John?”

“Well. Decently well. He’s a quick learner. Last night in the Forbidden Forest he held up pretty well. I’m just worried the others will outperform him. If this is Beauxbatons’ candidate imagine Durmstrangs’.”

“I could send him to you if you’d like. You could apply a similar method as you did with Miss Adler…”

“What gave it away?”

“You’re remarkably clumsy Sherlock, there’s a dress button on the floor and her hair on this desk. You might as well be wearing her perfume.”

“I heard you had a falling out with Harry Potter.”

“Who told you that?”

“Harry Potter. He was in to see me. Apparently I’m the reasonable brother. Fancy that.”

“You will of course, report everything he says to me,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Mr. Potter cannot see beyond his own moral compass.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock nodded.

“Now Daily Prophet reporter Kitty Riley will be interviewing the champions. She arrived here just last night. Make sure John is prepared.”

“Of course,”

“I also have some inside information on the second task. It will involve, as years past have, the most ‘precious treasure’ of the four champions. Find out what John’s is ahead of time, that might give him a slight advantage.”

“Will do. Anything else before you’re off to hold up the strings to puppet shows elsewhere?”

“When will you grow up?”

“When you grow old,”

Mycroft did not care to dignify that with a response however and quietly snapped the door shut with a flick of his wand as he left.

***

“So what are we doing today?” John asked.

“Nothing planned. It’s been a busy week. No sense in torturing you every day. We do only have a week left. Take a rest,” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, watching the housefly perched on John’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock snapped himself upright, “Oh yes of course. Just a tad pre-occupied.”

“What about? The tournament?” John sat down as the fly attached itself to the sides of an ink jar.

“No. It’s not important really.”

“Sherlock,”

“It’s the Patronus. I’ve been trying to conjure it. I just can’t. It’s remarkably frustrating,”

“I can imagine, I’ve been struggling with the charms you’ve given me all week.”

“But see,” Sherlock ran his hand through his own dark hair, “Those, for me, are child’s play. Magic always has been. Except this.”

“Maybe you’re stuck on the wrong memory,” John shrugged.

“Maybe, anyway, I’d like you to go to bed early tonight, spend some time with your friends. They must be wondering what you do all these hours with the Potions Master. Maybe they think I’m hanging you with your toenails attached to the ceiling. I do have that kind of reputation.”

“I am doing that,” John pointed out.

“I’ve never attached you to the ceiling,” Sherlock looked confused.

“No, not that, what you said before, that I should be spending time with my friends, I am spending time with my friend,”

Sherlock paused for a second. Perhaps longer. Had John just said friend? That wasn’t a word usually used to describe Sherlock. Genius—yes. Annoying—surely. Insufferable—all the time. But ‘friend’ was new. Interesting.

“We’re _friends_?” the professor asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, I thought so,” John laughed awkwardly, “So I’ll head up to the tower. Get some sleep. See you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. As he heard the clatter of the boy’s steps getting quieter and quieter he drew out his wand again. Replaying the last ten minutes of his life in his mind and murmuring the incantation he saw the briefest outline of an animal form in the air. At last. A Patronus.


	9. The Night Before the First Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically I'm stalling as long as I can until the actual First Task but also this Sherlock wishing John good luck before he faces life threatening dangers created by Sherlock himself.

“Sherlock it’s late, what are you doing here?” John climbed out of the portrait and glanced at the dark staircases around him, not a man or beast in sight except for the tall, shadowy figure of the professor, lean and cloaked in the night.

“I know. I just wanted to see you before tomorrow—I think you’re ready.” He spoke quickly.

“I reckon so too, anyways what’s the worst that could happen? Lose an arm? Couple fingers?” John tried to crack a smile.

Sherlock laughed in spite of himself. In spite of his worry. He thought about a time he had felt fear as deep as this, such an illogical unnecessary emotion. _Completely_ _ridiculous, you’re wasting your time wallowing in your own insecurities._ He heard Mycroft’s chill, disdainful voice. It had been an octave higher back then, but just as cold.

It had been the night before he left for Hogwarts for the first time. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Tossing and turning like anything. Seeing the big moon outside his window mocking him. _They won’t like you, Sherlock_ , it crooned. _You’re a freak Sherlock,_ he had pulled the covers tighter. He remembered a knock at the door.

His mother had always been such a beautiful woman. With large sapphire-blue eyes, that he swore changed color, and round, dark brown curls framing a soft, fair face. He always held it over Mycroft that he looked far more like her. Though of course the cheekbones were from his father. He tried to forget that.

“They’ll love you, Sherlock, I promise,” she had said as she plucked at one of his brown curls, so like her own.

“But what if they don’t?” he had asked, “I mean logically not everyone will. It’s technically impossible. And balance of probability states that—”

“The ones that matter to you will love you, Sherlock. You can forget about the others, _logically_ , “ she had smiled.

“How do you know? What empirical evidence can you possibly have for that assertion?” he had stared at her incredulously.

“This isn’t statistics, Sherlock. It only takes one data point to begin with. And I loved you from the start,” she had kissed him on the forehead and held him to her for a moment.

“What’s that in your other hand?” he had pointed at a glass bubbling with pale blue liquid.

“Special brew of mine,” she had brought it forward, “Just for a night. Guaranteed sweet dreams. You’ll need to be at your best tomorrow.”

“Sherlock, you okay? You zoned out there for a minute,” John waved his hand in front of his face.

“Oh yes, well. You’ll do great in tomorrow’s task, as I was saying,”

“Come on Sherlock. You know those two are a class above,”

“It doesn’t matter. As long as you can play to your strengths, it’ll be fine.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I don’t say these types of things, John. I never have. But a wise person once told me it only takes one person to believe in something to set it on the right track…and I…I’ve believed in you from the start.” He looked at his feet awkwardly.

John cleared his throat, “Er…thanks. Um, what’s that in your hand?”

“Sleeping potion. Family recipe. Guaranteed good dreams. Never fails,”

“For me?”

“No, I was about to go in there and ask for Mr. Rawlins, of course for you, don’t be an idiot,”

“I’ll try not to be, now that I know the great Sherlock Holmes believes in me I can’t possibly screw up,” John sniggered, taking the flask of potion from his outstretched hand.

“That’s right, I can’t have people thinking my protégée is a bumbling buffoon,” he snorted.

“Good night Professor Holmes,” John said, as he heard a rustling from behind the portrait hole.

Sherlock looked at him a tad wistfully before turning away, “Good night Mr. Watson.”

***

Bonus Scene:

As he drifted off to sleep that night and the effects of the potion calmed his stray thoughts John felt the beginnings of the best dream he had had in ages. Mary Morstan watching him play Quidditch. Catching the snitch. 9 Seconds flat. And then he was running towards her, about to embrace her. But the feeling of a soft laugh-lined cheek was soon replaced by a sharp, cheekbone, the face drawing closer and closer as the eyes changed from a warm brown to a sparkling blue, and with his other hand not the sensation of short blonde hair but of dark brown curls...


	10. The First Task

It was as if he had woken up in hell. One moment he was taking a sleeping draught, being told by Harry Potter that when he woke up he would be in the first task, the next he found himself in the middle of an octagon, each side a wall of a different color flame: blue, violet, red, yellow, green, white, black, and orange.  John frantically cast the first dousing spells that came to his mind. But quickly realized it wasn’t working. More worrying was the fact that his small place of sanctuary from the fire was gradually getting smaller. He suddenly heard a familiar voice, though far colder and menacing than he had ever heard it directed to him. Sherlock warned him there might be riddles. Of course.

_Blood and anger is the path to pain_

_Though gentle nature’s bounty is no more forgiving_

_The pure too is anything but calm and plain_

_Only harvest gold may grant the privilege of safe living_

_Yet the absence of all may grant something more_

_A passage beyond the beyond—a door_

_The wise, however, might pick the fruit_

_The cover of night does not all men suit_

_Choose then at the conclusion of this song_

_The first task, young champion, has begun_

Right. So Blood is red. So no blood. That’s pain. The octagon shrank and shrank as he racked his brain. _Nature’s bounty?_ Crops? Yellow? No. That’s the harvest gold. Nature’s bounty is green. Don’t want that. Harvest gold is yellow, that’ll keep me safe. Passage beyond…that’s what I want. The absence of all color is black. But the wise would pick the fruit. Maybe I’m not wise…he thought as he felt the heat of the fire closing in around him and dove through the black flames.

***

“He chose black,” Sherlock whispered to himself as he watched the markings made by his elaborate set of tracking spells.

He was gazing at the map of what he called the ‘Triwizard Battlefield’, essentially a version of the Marauder’s Map—which Harry had been kind enough to lend him—made specifically for this tournament.

John was doing well initially, solving the riddle and getting to relative safety before the fire got to him. Now he was fighting off blast-ended skrewts to get to the first door. Sherlock had hoped John would pick black as soon as he had been allowed by Harry Potter to look over the task designs he had been made to forget. Behind each door a different terror until the final door. Then the memory chamber. Every ‘safe’ color choice eventually led to the memory chamber. But the challenges that would meet the champions would vary. It had been Sherlock’s idea to make each champion’s ultimate fate in the first task depend on a split second decision motivated more by gut feeling than cold calculation. The other task makers, Professor Moran of Durmstrang and Monsieur Lestrade of Beauxbatons, had agreed to take the theme of ‘choice’ through their own work as well. That way, Harry Potter had reasoned, the tournament would measure not only technical skill, but how well each student could reconcile their values with their judgment. 

Frankly speaking, Sherlock didn’t care much about what the tournament tested. He didn’t even have too much of an interest in how Adler managed to defeat the Venomous Tentactula while caught in a Devil’s Snare. Or how Moriarty managed to solve his potioneering riddle and avoid the sleeping draught. He focused his eyes on the map just to see that John’s dot didn’t disappear or falter.

But concerned as he was for John, his mind was racing all the same. Just as he suspected the three had made distinct choices.

Moriarty had gone for orange, the fruit. As he was ‘wise’ that path would lead him to dangerous intellectual riddles. John had chosen black, the door within a door sequence. Adler had surprised him slightly, going with green, a clearly dangerous path that would take her through several herbological terrors before she would chance at the prize she needed to move on to the second task. Maybe she had panicked, or perhaps herbology was simply her best subject and she intended to play to her strength? Either way, her fate was completely separate from John’s. Which was good. Sherlock was sure the other two were perfectly lethal when combated directly. At least the skrewts had no hidden agenda.

“You’ve trained him well, Sherlock,”

“Shut up Mycroft, it’s your fault he’s in this mess in the first place, it was the least I could do,”

“Still bitter, are we?” Mycroft sighed, “Grow up. See the larger picture, if you will.”

“I am not bitter,” Sherlock murmured.

“Give my best to Harry Potter, I’m going abroad for a few weeks,”

“Do you expect me to promise to be on my best behavior while you’re gone?”

“Don’t try anything rash,”

“Ah yes, spontaneity, surges of emotion, what every good Holmes seeks to avoid,” Sherlock laughed.

“I thought I should warn you, Father’s coming,” Mycroft said lightly.

“Why’s that?” Sherlock said quickly, turning to look his brother in the eye.

“Please, Sherlock, he’s an ex-auror. The minister wants him to watch the Durmstrang staff. Seeing as he put half their parents in Azkaban, the minister thinks Father’s the best man for the job,”

“Yes. Very logical. He’s more than qualified… But I won’t see him,” Sherlock gripped the desk tightly, trying desperately to focus on the map as his heart rate skyrocketed and the color seeped steadily from his face.

Mycroft gripped his wrist lightly, and Sherlock stiffened, Mycroft never touched him, “Control yourself, William. Or he wins.”

Sherlock jerked his hand away angrily, “Even mother stopped calling me that when I asked her too. That’s not my name. I’m not him. I’m Sherlock.”

“Good.  Now start acting like it.”

***

John groaned as he pushed through the final door. There were no monsters here. He had burns on his arms that probably needed to be looked at. But that could wait. He was almost there. He saw the orb on a raised platform, a single bright light shone down upon it from a hole in the ceiling. Horrifying as it was, Sherlock had certainly made the task starkly beautiful in its own way.

Was it this simple? Could he just reach out and take it?

He stepped forward to find out, but the step took him to a different room. A different place altogether.

“I can’t help it, Dad!” his sister Harry cried, “It’s not unnatural. I love Clara…”

The Watsons’ living room. 5 years earlier.

“John you’re not keeping this kind of secret too are you?” his father demanded.

“No, John’s always liked girls,” his mother volunteered, “Haven’t you John? Talk some sense into your sister will you.”

“John please,” Harry begged, “John I know you’re with me.”

“No, no,” his father pat him on the back, “Son you’re of fine Watson stock. I won’t have you associating with Harriet and her crowd.”

“John,” tears streaked down Harry’s face, “It’s Harry! Not Harriet. Tell them John.”

John heard his own voice speak and wanted more than anything to silence it, “No Harriet, listen to Mom and Dad. They-they-only want what’s best.”

“What’s best for me?” she choked out, “Or what’s best for them?”

“Don’t you dare talk to us like that young lady” his father said sharply, “Now first things first I want you to call that Clara and tell her you won’t be seeing her anymore.”

“I’m leaving,” she brought out her wand, to the general shock of both John and his parents, “And you’d be crazy to try and stop me,”

She grabbed John by the scruff of his sweater and the scene changed as they both disapparated.

Now they were standing in an abandoned warehouse. She was still crying, but she looked stronger now.

“I want you to know how much this hurts John,” she said, “I would never, ever, have done this to you.”

“You wouldn’t have had to,” John said a touch too defensively, “I-I’m not like that.”

“I just wanted you to know, I may be leaving the family but I’m not leaving you, maybe one day you’ll need me and you’ll understand,”

“I’ll never need you, I’m a Watson. I-I-I-I’m the good son,” he felt himself say right before he disapparated, trying as hard as he could to focus on home and not on her face, so red, and her eyes, so like his, so swollen from crying.

Then he was back in the room with the orb. _Is that it? See the worst memory and take the orb?_ John looked around for the next trick, but he was still alone.

Then Sherlock’s voice asked a question that had haunted John for years, a question that made his blood run cold, “What were you afraid of?”

***

It was the same question that would be asked to all three champions after they went through the worst memory of their lives. Worst memories were, after all, about fear. And the memory chamber would only let the one who answered truthfully take the orb. Sherlock smiled as he saw John’s dot pacing about the chamber, it was a masterstroke, not testing strength of brain or brawn, only being.

***

 John sighed, it hurt to admit this, it really did. But if he knew Sherlock, there was no other way he was getting that orb.

He took a deep breath, “I was afraid because I am like her. I wanted to be the ‘good son’. But I’m not. And I never can be.”

***

The next day Harry Potter wrote up the rankings for all to see. The point breakdowns. And the task winner.

_James Moriarty (Durmstrang) and John Watson(Hogwarts) – Tied for First with 45 points_

_Irene Adler(Beauxbatons) – Second with 28 points_

Sherlock meanwhile paced impatiently in front of the hospital wing doors, intermittently saying things like, “I am a professor, let me in!”

Until he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and suddenly had the sensation of being hit in the face with a brick, “I was a little disappointed you didn’t come to meet me at the gate. What’s it been son, fifteen years?”

“Mister Holmes, I trust your journey from London went well. Now if you’ll excuse me I have matters to attend to”

“Willy please, can’t we talk?”

“That’s ‘Professor Holmes’ to you. Afternoon.”


	11. Keeping Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes abroad. John asks Mary to the Yule Ball. Sherlock goes after Kitty Riley and seems to have bitten off more than he can chew.

“John I have absolutely no idea what the next two tasks will test you on. Nor am I permitted to help you with your orb. As I told you earlier in the hospital wing, with my father around it won’t be wise to continue the experimental magic either. So—“

“Sherlock, do you not want to see me anymore?” John asked.

“No, I didn’t say that, what I’m saying—“

“Just because I tied for first in the first task doesn’t mean I don’t need your help anymore. You’re not trying to run out on me are you?”

“No, No, I’m not, I’m just trying to. Um.” This was curious, Sherlock was never at a loss for words, he retreated briefly to his mind palace.

“Keep your distance?”

“Yes,” Sherlock looked awkwardly to the side, at his stacks of potion ingredients, anywhere but at John.

“Can I ask why?”

“It’s not entirely appropriate for a professor to be _friends_ with a student. Could be looked upon as favoritism. And besides, with Ms. Riley coming around interviewing all the champions you’re better off without me hanging around,”

“I think I should get to decide who I’m better off with, to be perfectly honest,” John said.

“John you’re the pride of Gryffindor house. Quidditch captain. Now triwizard champion. The greatest seeker since Potter. I’m an experimental sorcerer with ties to dark magic and international exploits  that would destroy the reputations of several very powerful people if brought into the open. An unstable high-functioning sociopath. Now add in some media sensationalism and you have a cover story that states among other things that I’m shaping you into becoming my dark protégée.”

John looked oddly fascinated and a touch hurt, “That’s really how you see us. After all this time? Just ‘The Seeker and the Sociopath’?”

“You seem disappointed,” Sherlock says, slightly taken aback, John should be happy to hear this, logically, he’s doing it for him.

“Good deduction,” John said on his way out, “You know for a moment there before the first task I thought we were friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock replied automatically, suddenly wishing he hadn’t done what he felt he had to do.

***

_Mycroft:_

_Distanced myself from the boy as instructed. He didn’t take it well. What data have you been collecting abroad? The plot shows no sign of unfolding here. The calm before the storm? Anyway, I saw our father. Neglected to give him your best. Apologies. Write back when it’s secure enough to do so, no rush here. Business as usual._

_\--SH_

_Sherlock,_

_Ignoring him like you undoubtedly are only makes you the child. But that aside, I have greater matters than your emotional state to handle. The other buyers I pacified with the Triwizard deal have taken research on the artifact to most of the experts already. Following their tracks yields nothing of note. I conducted the same research years before it was even uncovered. Adler is not the real threat here, by the way. Observe Moriarty if you can. Although I am relieved you were able to distance yourself from John despite your emotional attachment to him, I must ask you to reverse course. I have intel on the second task indicating that the ‘most precious’ thing of each champion will be in the arena with them. This is no doubt done to give Adler the ally she needs to successfully win back the edge. It has no precedent in tournament history and will undoubtedly cause a significant stir. Nevertheless, I want it made clear to the Triwizard committee how highly John values you. Till I return, I pray it remains business at usual. The ‘puppet show’ as you call it, is badly in need of its master._

_\--MH_

Sherlock put a silver sickle in the claws of the owl that brought him the note and read it over again. Damn Mycroft and his timing. He had only just forcibly pushed the thought of John from his mind and now it was racing again with ideas of him, of them. Oh god. He couldn’t do this. He had told John only a few days ago he wanted nothing more to do with him. How could he explain such a great change of heart? Damn.

He decided he would call John up to the teacher’s table at breakfast next morning. With everyone watching it would be impossible for him to shirk away. Then he would explain. Just how wrong he had been. It would be easy. For once he wouldn’t be manipulating. He could actually get what he wanted by telling the truth.

***

John wondered if Sherlock could dance. He really didn’t want to be thinking about that. After all, he had just asked an overjoyed Mary to accompany him to the Yule Ball, and he should be thrilled about a long evening with her…but his mind kept slipping back to how the potions master might look like in well-cut dress robes, the lights playing off his cheekbones… _God, John, no._ _He doesn’t want anything to do with you. And fantasizing about something that’s never going to happen isn’t healthy. You have Mary. Focus on Mary. Yes, Mary. Kind, blonde, non-sociopathic Mary who he would be taking to the Yule Ball._

Then to his surprise he looked up over his bran muffin and saw Sherlock beckoning to him from the teacher’s table. Prat. He could hardly ignore him now.

“Yes, professor?”

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock took them to the side.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Professor, if you could be a bit more explicit.”

“Right, alright. You know what. I’ll be honest. It was my father.”

“Your father? The ex-auror? He’s the reason you didn’t want to speak to me ever again. Right. Okay, Well if that’s all.”

“I meant to say my brother. See, he’s with the ministry. He _is_  theministry actually,” Sherlock said nervously.

“Stop lying, Sherlock. It wasn’t your father. Or your brother. It was you. You were afraid. Admit it.”

“That’s ridiculous,”

“No, come on,” John reasoned, “You were afraid that someone actually liked you enough to stick around and maybe see who you actually are when you’re not being ‘Professor Holmes’ or ‘Sherlock the Genius’. So you ended it. I get it. Okay.”

“John. That’s not why. You don’t understand,” he said slowly.

“I’m not a genius, Sherlock. But I do understand. Now, I think I’ll be heading back to the Gryffindor table,”

Sherlock rattled on something about the week’s potions homework and John nodded twice before they turned and went their separate ways. He sat in the hall long after the breakfasting students had left and was soon alone at the long table at the front. Used to his oddities none of the other staff commented, and quietly left. Only John with his uneaten bran muffin still sat at the table. The only student in a vast empty hall. Sherlock looked to him hopefully, maybe he would turn back. Maybe he would come speak to him. But he didn’t. John left the hall and Sherlock was completely alone in it. But that was fine. Being alone. Alone was what he had all along. Alone protected him. _Didn’t it?_

_***_

_Sherlock,_

_Kitty Riley is an animagus. She may have been privy to several conversations containing sensitive ministry secrets. I want you to blackmail her and hold her in check. No matter the cost._

_\--MH_

_Ms. Riley:_

_It has come to my attention that you are unregistered animagus. As such an offense is punishable by law I will kindly withhold my knowledge if you will consent to meeting me in my office in the dungeons. Failure to do so will incur my displeasure._

_\--Professor W.S.S. Holmes_

_Dear Professor,_

_You needn’t worry. I’ve been to your office already. If you reveal my secret I have more than enough of yours. Choose carefully, love. Enjoy tomorrow’s headline!_

_Yours,_

_Kitty_

_***_

POOR PROFESSOR PATRONUS: FAMED POTIONEER CANNOT PERFORM CHARM…WHERE HAVE HOGWARTS’ STANDARDS GONE?

Mycroft put down the paper with a sigh, out of embarrassing little brothers he certainly had the worst of the lot.


	12. The Yule Ball Part One

John first saw the headline in the Great Hall over breakfast. A gaggle of Gryffindors stood over it laughing. After all the times Professor Holmes had mocked them for their incompetence it turned out he himself was not that much better. John looked to the teacher’s table, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“Guess Professor Patronus is a no-show,” Mary smiled.

“Don’t call him that,” John dashed out of the hall hurriedly. He would go down to the dungeons, he would make this right, he would make sure Sherlock knew it wasn’t him who had told Kitty Riley. That he would never betray him like that.

***

_Ms. Riley,_

_Do your worst. My offer to meet still stands for the time being._

_\--Professor W.S.S.Holmes_

Sherlock massaged his temples and sighed. Maybe if he stayed down here in his office he could wait till the storm died down. After all, it wasn’t as if he could go down to the great hall, cast a corporeal patronus and prove the article wrong just like that. It was right about him. He, a grown, educated man, and a genius, could not cast a N.E.W.T. level enchantment. He probably deserved this. He would have to be ‘Professor Patronus’ for a while. There were worse things. And Mycroft had said ‘No matter what the cost’. Damn him.

 _Expecto Patronum._ Nothing.

 _Expecto Patronum._ Not a wisp. Fuck.

“Can I come in?”

“No. I’d much rather be alone right now.”

John came in anyway, “Well, that’s too bad. I just wanted you to know—“

“I know it wasn’t you. So if that’s all you came to say you might as well go now.” Sherlock cut him off sharply.

“Thought you could use some company,” John sat down across from him.

“You didn’t seem interested in my company yesterday,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yesterday you didn’t need me,”

“I still don’t need you,”

“There must be some happy memory you can draw on. That day we did the memory charm. I saw you, dressed like a pirate,” John laughed.

“With Redbeard the dog. They…um…gave him to me to distract me from what was going on. Worked for a while. Well eventually they had to put him down. Logical, I suppose.” He found himself rambling, telling all of this to John, but he couldn’t help it. This time though he had cast a spell on the room to make sure Kitty wasn’t listening, he was pretty sure her animagus form was small. Possibly a bug. Maybe a rodent. _How could he have not noticed before? Idiotic._

“You must have had some good times with Mycroft?”

“Mycroft? Have you met him? You wouldn’t say things like that if you knew my brother. He’s the most dangerous man you’ll _ever_ meet.”

“I always think about my friends on the Quidditch team. Goofing around. They’re my team, I’d do anything for them. My mates.”

“I don’t have _mates_ John,” Sherlock said a tad disgustedly.

“Right, sorry, um. Anyone else you’re particularly attached to?”

Sherlock looked at him nervously, considered his options, then gulped, “My mother.”

“Your mother, Sherlock? You two are close?”

“She was brilliant.”

“Was?”

“She died. Years ago, of course.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t do that. It’s been years. I’m quite okay with it actually.”

There was an awkward pause, then Sherlock spoke, “I have a picture actually. Of the old days. You won’t recognize Mycroft they way you’ve seen him in the papers. He was fat back then. More so than now.”

He turned the one picture frame on his desk to face John, “That’s her. That’s me. And that’s Mycroft.”

“You look just like her. But it looks ripped…”

“My father was out of the picture at that point,”

“There never really is a bad time for a pun with you is there?”

“We were getting way too touchy-feely. Dull. Boring. Hate that.”

“Right. So, I still can’t figure out my orb problem. Which is an issue.”

“Thrust it in the fireplace. Make sure you’re alone. It’ll talk to you. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to—“

“I didn’t. I overheard bits of Adler’s conversation. Deduced the rest.”

“You’re fantastic. I think I’ll go check right away. Common room’s probably open. Everybody’s in the great hall anyway—“

“—reading the paper, I know. Off you go.” Sherlock motioned for him to leave.

“Will I see you at the Yule Ball tomorrow night?” John asked suddenly.

“Why ever not? I love dancing. I’ve always loved it.” Sherlock confessed.

***

John had never seen the great hall look so beautiful. Everything decorated with white tinsel. Enchanted snowflakes drifting from the ceiling. Beautiful harp music playing as the aging Celestina Warbeck sang one of her classic ballads.

“Mary didn’t make it?” Sherlock came up behind him.

“Came down with the flu, I danced with Adler in the opening minutes, where were you?” John asked.

“Mycroft’s back. Had a quick reunion. Want to go out to the grounds?” Sherlock suggested.

It was deathly cold outside but there was almost no one there. Only the triwizard committee sitting in a hastily put up gazebo, obviously propped up by magic. John shivered slightly as he finally had the chance to look at Sherlock, who more than did justice to John’s regrettable dress robe daydreams. Perfectly cut dark navy that rather unfairly matched with his eyes. Those dark, perfect curls, fair skin, which had of course been illuminated in the moonlight. Sherlock really was an unfair person to look at, John thought. Truly.

“Want to dance?” Sherlock asked to John’s surprise.

“Sorry, what?” John sputtered.

“I thought my meaning was perfectly clear. Do you want to dance with me right now?”

“Guy friends don’t dance together. That’s not normal.”

“Normal’s boring, and that wasn’t a good answer to my question. I hate being redundant. Do you want to dance with me?”

“Oh god yes,”

And so John found himself dancing with Sherlock Holmes on the school grounds. The girl’s part. Which, embarrassingly enough, he knew from when his _sister_ Harry made him do it with her. Out of all the things that could have happened this evening. He wasn’t expecting this.

Sherlock was an unexpectedly good dancer. Great even. He was carrying to the beat of a song they could barely hear from out here. Perfect time. Before he knew it John found himself being twirled around, as Sherlock laughed. _Honestly, John, you’re a quidditch captain, what are you doing?_

Then suddenly they stopped dancing.

Sherlock had gotten the feeling they were being watched. All six members of the triwizard committee were now looking at them. Now was his chance.

“Now John, I want you to know that I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one. And that while you are not the brightest of people as a conducter of light you are invaluable.”

“What? Sherlock, what are you saying?”

“I need to go with you into the second task. The only way I can do that is if you respond well to what I’m about to do just now. And not take it the wrong way. And in order for you to do that, I need you to know that we’re friends. Just good friends, nothing more.”

“Friends, yes, but what are you going to do?” John asked confusedly.

“This,” Sherlock looked up to make sure they were still watching, and kissed him.


	13. The Yule Ball Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John completely freaks out about Sherlock's actions during the Yule Ball, but ultimately decides its in his own best interests to go along with Sherlock, who seems to have had good intentions. Sherlock meanwhile, confronts his father, while both determine how best to deal with the vision John sees in the orb.

It was a beautiful sensation while it lasted. Sherlock’s warm, soft lips on his. He just wanted to reach out and touch that hair. Kiss him longer. Harder. Yet Sherlock quickly broke off. For a moment he stared at him in a daze. But then the feelings of frustration came up. The anger. A bit of confusion too. But he remembered what Sherlock said, _respond well_.

And so he took Sherlock roughly by the hand, fought down the conflicting emotions, and said more loudly than strictly necessary, “Let’s head back to the dormitory, Professor”

But once they were out of both earshot and view of the committee John let loose, “What. The bloody, fucking hell. Was that?”

“I need them to think we’re together so that when they pick the person that’s most precious to you to go with you in the second task—it’s me.”

“I see. And when where you going to let me know of this ingenious plan,” John said, annoyed.

“I did let you know in advance,” Sherlock said.

“Two seconds does not count Sherlock!” John exclaimed angrily, “And what was all that nonsense about us being friends before that. Friends do not unexpectedly kiss their friends, Sherlock.”

“I told you that, to let you know that this was just a little show. We can be friends. Still. If you’d like.”

“You’re a psychopath,”

“High functioning sociopath actually.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just do that.”

“Why ever not? It was the quickest and most logical way to achieve the goal. Am I really that bad a kisser?”

“You think I’m mad because you’re not a good kisser?” John snapped incredulously.

“Why else would you be upset?”

“Maybe because one of my professors randomly kissed me. Without warning.”

“Technically there was warning. And you seemed fine dancing with me earlier.”

“Oh, was that a part of the show too? Excellent.”

“No they weren’t even watching then. That was us having fun.”

“Oh good. Great. That was us having fun before you ruined it by planting one on me.”

“Come on, was there something off about my form. Bad breath? What? Give me something to work with.”

“You’re unbelievable,” John sighed, “You’re an excellent kisser, Sherlock. That’s actually. Hands down. The best kiss I’ve ever had. Happy?”

Sherlock blinked, a bit shocked, “Are you sure? It barely lasted a second. You being a Quidditch Captain, I expected better. Though it doesn’t technically bring me happiness. A tiny bit of validation maybe…”

“Well I’m quite sorry I don’t live up to your expectations of my romantic prowess.”

“You should be. After all, we’ve just convinced the triwizard committee that you’re taking me up to the Gryffindor dormitory to have sex.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“Of course not. It’s against school rules for a teacher to shag a student.”

“There’s an actual rule that says that.”

“It’s more of an implied thing, I think. Though you could definitely get expelled for it.”

And suddenly they were both laughing and couldn’t stop. In spite of himself John felt his anger abating.

“So we’re good then?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m still upset at you,” John said as he laughed warily, “But it’s getting better now that I realize you had to let your colleagues see you being led to bed by a student. You won’t be able to look them in the eye for weeks.”

“Sacrifices have to be made. My image is already shot to hell anyway.”

“I still don’t approve of what you did. I really don’t. Especially not letting me know until literally the last possible second…But I need you on my side if I’m going to win this tournament, you know, without your help last time around I was done for, to Triwizard victory?” John extended his hand to indicate a truce.

“To victory,” Sherlock shook it.

 ***

“You’ve agreed to meet with me, William? After two weeks of pretending I didn’t exist.”

“I was busy,” Sherlock shrugged.

His father turned the picture frame, “You didn’t have to tear me out, you know. It wasn’t my fault that she—“

“It was. But I’ve forgiven you,” Sherlock looked at the man he had blamed his entire life, “It’s time I grew up. Left _William_ behind, so to speak. But I didn’t bring you hear to dig up old ghosts.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Bait,” he snapped his wand in the direction of a bug on the floor below him. A bug with very distinctive back markings. One he was sure he had seen in the room before. A glass like cage materialized around her immediately.

“She probably heard rumor of my relationship with you. When I arranged for a meeting with you it was too good of an opportunity to miss. Kitty came by to eavesdrop right on schedule.” Sherlock smirked smugly.

“You used me, your own father. To go after a conniving journalist,” his father looked slightly aghast.

“I’ll admit she was the main goal. Using you was simply a bonus.”

***

“When I put it in the fire I heard a voice in my mind telling me to close my eyes. When I did I got a vision of four seasons. Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. Then a wheel with six spokes.” John explained.

“You’ll have to face the elements then. That’s the only natural conclusion,” Sherlock paced about the room, “As for six spokes. There’ll be six people this time around. I’m not sure whether the three who aren’t champions will be conscious the whole time or not. But at some point it’ll be three teams of two. That makes sense.”

“Why a wheel? And why seasons?” John shrugged, “I feel like we’re missing something.”

“Of course we are. It’s a clue. A glimpse. Not a guidebook.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just worried that’s all. Now that you’re in this one too.”

“You should be relieved. The only thing Adler’s better than me at is dueling. As for Moriarty, he may think he has a leg up on us because he specializes in dark magic. But I didn’t spend all those years abroad for nothing.”

“Do I want to know?”

“No.”

“Right. So Mycroft told you to spy on Moriarty. What do you have so far?”

“Nothing actually, he’s been scarce. Only saw him for a minute at the Yule Ball. Never comes down to eat. I’ve never seen him.”

“Maybe you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve been going after him. Maybe you need to get his attention. And he’ll come after you.”

“Yes. Fascinating. I need to show him dark magic.”

“No that’s not what I was saying…” John said exasperatedly.

Sherlock clapped his hands, “Oh it’s Christmas! Dark magic! Of course. Yes. Excellent work John.”

“So you can take care of that. Without me, if possible. And in the meantime I should do what exactly?”

“Research spells against common elemental dangers. Practice them. I can’t think of anything else at the moment. But that should do. Leave the rest to me. You haven’t seen me do real, hardcore magic yet John.”

“I haven’t? How good are you?”

“Oh John the real thing is more dazzling than your wildest, craziest daydreams.”

John blushed, and hoped Sherlock didn’t notice, “I wouldn’t count on it. I have pretty high expectations of you. Even in daydreams.”

“John I slayed a chimaera.”

“Hey I’m useful at magic too. I won the first task.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah it is. One of the greatest wizards I know designed that challenge.”

Sherlock smirked, “So he did.”


	14. The Death of Violet Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft play with dark magic and its relation to life and death.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, what’s wrong?” John asked, eying Sherlock’s paler than usual composition.

“An accidental good deduction, John,” Sherlock nodded, “In fact I have, in a manner of speaking,”

“You’ve seen ghosts all the time around the castle, I don’t understand—“ John began.

“Indeed for your sake, I hope you never understand,” Sherlock closed the heavy volume on his desk, scattering dust everywhere, “Delving in dark magic is a painful privilege,”

“What did you do?” John demanded.

“The incantations are beyond your understanding,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, “But I used an extremely potent magical object as the center for a series of, um, well the closest thing you would associate is charms, that can briefly bring back the dead,”

“Like the resurrection stone,”

“No the theory behind that is far different, but suffice it to say, this way was far more painful,” he sighed, “I am exhausted,”

“I guess I’ll ask the obvious question, who’d you bring back?”

“Actually the obvious question is what object I managed to find powerful enough to center on. At least that’s what I would have asked. The Goblet of Fire worked fine enough, I somehow wrangled Potter’s permission to use it. But I know what you’re thinking. Sherlock would bring back his mother,” Sherlock stared at him intensely, “Don’t deny it, I know you’re thinking it. I can see the thought floating in your eyes. But no, I would never subject her to this.”

“All this to attract Moriarty’s attention to you,” John shook his head as he eyed the opened letters on the desk, “I suppose whoever you did bring back, you picked them based on new intel from that brother of yours.”

“Exactly. Carl Powers. I needed him to tell me how he died. The case was closed years ago. But that’s the only lead on Moriarty Mycroft could find. The rest of his past, it’s practically been erased. With what I got from this I still can’t pin James as the killer. Which is frustrating to say the least. It’s all rather circumstantial. Nevertheless, Carl gave me the details necessary to give him a good scare, I’m hoping it’ll be enough of a push to get him to quit the tournament.”

“Something tells me it’s not going to be that easy,”

“Oh Mycroft agrees with you, he’s asked me to be careful, to take care of myself, and he never says that,”

“Never been the caring type?”

“Not really, no, his nickname at school was ‘The Iceman’”

“What was yours?”

“That’s hardly relevant,”

“Come on, spill,”

“John we are not teenage girls at a slumber party,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock you have to tell me, you kissed me remember,”

“We shook on it, you can’t keep using that against me,”

“Of course I can, I also caught you with Adler,”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock,”

“The virgin,”

“Sorry what?”

“You heard it perfectly well the first time, the Holmes boys, ‘The Iceman’, and ‘The Virgin’, happy now? I’m counting this as even for the kissing incident.”

“Were you really? Even seventh year?” John asked.

“John I suspect any second now you’re going to ask me to paint your nails, and read a copy of _Witch Weekly_ with you,”

“Right, sorry,” John said seriously, “At least we took care of that particular problem the night of the Yule Ball, thanks to your timely coming on to me,”

“Shut up John,” Sherlock laughed, “I honestly can’t believe this. I’ve just told you I have the power to summon the dead at will, and you’re asking me about my sex life,”

“Hey you’re the one who was all ‘these spells are beyond you comprehension’, I’m just sticking to things within my grasp, which, according to the Triwizard Committee, includes your arse,”

“John there are exactly one hundred thirty-seven ways I could kill you and make it look like an accident,”

“Do you threaten all of your pretend boyfriends with intentions of murder? I’m beginning to think this isn’t a healthy relationship,”

“Yes, well, can’t stay in the honeymoon period forever,”

“Yeah no, snorkeling and beaches, roses, horse drawn carriages, not really your thing,”

“Beaches are tedious, too many people, children, animals,” Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

“You’re a mountain guy then?”

“No,”

“Then where, hypothetically, would you sweep me off to?”

Sherlock replied without a moment’s hesitation, “221B Baker Street,”

***

_Entering Classified Area of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_

_Please identify_

Mycroft eyed the plaque then spoke evenly, “Recognize Mycroft Holmes, code alpha tango six zero four charlie seven nine four four bravo two”

 _Recognized, Mycroft Holmes_ appeared on the plaque.

He then looked behind him to ensure no one was watching, and quite calmly walked through the wall, sealing the entrance after him.

“Her condition hasn’t changed Mr. Holmes,” a woman in a labcoat looked up as he came in, “Still catatonic, unresponsive,”

“Thank you Ms. Hooper you may leave us,” he ordered coldly.

“Yes, sir,” she grabbed a few instruments then rushed to the adjoining room.

Mycroft pulled aside the curtain and gazed at the patient. Light streamed in from a window at the head of the bed, and illuminated the features of a woman of thirty-seven, who might have been sleeping, had Mycroft not known better. It had certainly been easier to tell his little brother that his mother was dead rather than have him face the daily agony of knowing there was an almost nonexistent chance she might wake up from the horrifying, dark magical curse she had set upon herself.

The card on the side of the bed read ‘Violet Holmes. Magically induced coma. Incantation unknown. Suspension of aging. No known cure.’, a classification that made it seem like she was just a routine patient at the hospital. When of course she was not. Mycroft had taken great pains to keep her existence a secret. While he alone worked tirelessly to find a cure he knew was beyond anyone else, even Sherlock. Bringing him here would hurt him beyond repair, so Mycroft never did, though he had been sorely tempted many times. It would have helped to have an ally in this. Though Mycroft had, in his own way, taken Sherlock’s support. The artifact at the center of the Triwizard plot he was sure would be the key to the cure.

He knew very well that people thought him cold and unfeeling. Even Sherlock, who tried desperately to mold himself to be the same, thought so. What would they say if they saw him here, caressing the black curls of a woman hanging halfway between life and death? It was purely a sentimental visit, he had to admit, to strengthen his resolve.

It had all been necessary, he thought as he squeezed her hand, distancing himself from Sherlock, manipulating the minister. After all, the only reason he hated seeing his brother get emotional and attached was because it reminded him of her. What had led her to do this to herself. He could barely look at Sherlock without seeing her eyes and her hair and being suddenly seized with the irrational desire to tell him that she was still, technically, barely alive. No, he thought, Sherlock could never know how much Mycroft loved him, it would make him weak, and it would destroy him. As having loved and being attached had inevitably destroyed her. And Mycroft would never let that happen. 


	15. The Three Broomsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head to Hogsmeade Village.

“John, honestly, just because I’ve said I’ve never been,” Sherlock huffed.

“You were here for _seven years_ and you never went to The Three Broomsticks? I’m sorry, I had to bring you, look our butterbeers are here,” he pushed a mug towards Sherlock.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered, “I was better off in Ravenclaw tower,”

“Doing what? Oh yes, studying dark magical lore. Sorry I asked,” John sighed.

“Though to be fair, I did come down to Hogsmeade, just not to this place, it was too crowded here, all the noise interrupted my thinking,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Strange, I never thought Madame Puddifoots would be your kind of hangout, but to each his own,” John smiled.

“Shut up, prat, I didn’t mean there. The Hog’s Head, more often than not. To meet with some like minded fellows.”

“Like minded fellows? Any dates?”

“Just the one, disastrous”

“What happened? Did you kiss them without warning? That can always be a bit off-putting.”

“Quite the opposite I’m afraid, I refused to,” Sherlock admitted, “You might have heard of him actually. Victor Trevor. Potioneer.”

“But he seems exactly your type, reclusive, brilliant, genius,”

“Also domineering. Arrogant. Pompous. Yes, yes, I know. Pot calling the kettle black.”

“You’re not pompous. And I’d say you’re justifiably arrogant. While you do seem domineering initially you really aren’t. I did manage to drag you down here after all.”

“Thank you for that analysis John,” he remarked dryly, “Your vote of confidence has raised my spirits greatly.”

“Oh lighten up, come on, this is one night of the week we’re not working on the tournament,”

“How are we planning to pass off this trip to the rest of the student population? Emergency potions study session?” Sherlock turned as the rest of the Quidditch team came in, “Oh look who it is John, excellent, my second time around at Hogwarts I can finally be with the ‘cool kids’”

“Professor,” two boys nodded to him as they passed, grinning at John and whispering, “Sorry for you mate,”

Yet the next, beater Nate Harvey was bolder, “Evening, Professor Holmes,” he nudged John, “Better head back to the castle before dark, lest you run into any dementors on your way back,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked lightly.

“Oh nothing, I’m sure _you_ could take care of it,”

John looked to Sherlock, surely he would dock points, or say _something._

But he didn’t, and before he knew it John was coming to his defense, “I don’t think that’s any way to talk about a teacher, Harvey,”

“A teacher? He’s practically useless if he can’t even cast a Patronus Charm. He probably only teaches here because of his big-shot ministry brother. The Holmes’ are all losers. Did you know his mother was so incompetent with magic she got herself blown up and killed?”

“Apologize,” John pointed his wand at Harvey, “Now,”

“Expelliarmus,” Sherlock had suddenly gotten up, collecting both boys’ wands in his hand as he stowed away his own, “Come along John,”

“Sherlock,”

“That was not a request, Mr. Watson,”

“Oh bloody fine,” he trudged after him into the snow, as door slammed shut behind him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” John demanded, “I have half a mind to go back in there and—“

“Not that I don’t appreciate what you were-um-willing to do, duel for me, which was, I might add, unadvisable. But you failed to notice one thing. Harvey was being controlled by the imperious curse. The source of the curse, from what I observed, was not within the room. Those weren’t his words. He’s being controlled remotely by someone else. The intent was obviously to provoke me.”

“What does this mean? Where are we going now?”

“It means, my dear Watson, that we succeeded in capturing Moriarty’s attention, and now, we are going to the curse’s source, perhaps begin to unravel his web, oh I haven’t been this excited for a while, maybe this Hogsmeade trip will be fun after all”

“The one night a week we’re not working on the tournament, I spoke too soon,” John grumbled.

“Keep up, John!” Sherlock had darted ahead.

“Right behind you,” John groaned.

***

After running in the snow for what felt like hours, Sherlock finally admitted defeat, “The charm I was using to track the spell seems to have led us to a dead end, trail ends here I’m afraid, damn, I was looking forward to this,”

“Yeah, so was I, but I can’t help but thinking, it’s almost midnight, and we’re out in the snow, and your detector charm has just about given us all it’s going to—“

“Wait!” Sherlock exclaimed looking at his wand excitedly, “It’s glowing again, it’s picking something up,”

“Joy,” John went into the abandoned building with his wand outstretched infront of him, “Dark, derelict, possible signs of unforgivable curses having been used. What are we waiting for?”

“Back there John, there’s an envelope, pick it up,”

John kneeled down and looked at the envelope, “Lumos,”

“Open it,”

“Five orange pips, and a note, it says ‘Let the Great Game begin’, alright, that’s a bit weird,”

Sherlock frowned as his wand began to dim, “No it isn’t. I think Harvey was a ploy to draw us here. And this is a message. Hmmm. Say, John?”

“No, no, we are not staying the night here waiting for your tracking spell to start working again,”

“It’s been brightening intermittently, picking up the signal, but the trail keeps changing direction, half the time it leads back to the castle, and half the time it leads to the Shrieking Shack, this seems to be a hotspot of sorts, I’ll stay, collect more data, you can go back if you want,”

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not staying here all by yourself. Though I suppose it won’t be too bad, abandoned shack in the middle of winter, freezing cold,”

“Here, stop grumbling,” Sherlock flicked his wand a few times and two mattresses, some sheets and pillows materialized, John also felt the room grow noticeably warmer.

“Where did you get these from?”

“Inn next door I think, this temperature all right for you? You know I told you to master those elemental spells. Dealing with heat and the cold was part of that.”

“Yes, I know the ones you used for that, I’ve been practicing,”

“Well done,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, “You know I’m singularly impressed, I think that imperious curse had two different source locations, maybe more. At any rate he was able to maintain precise control even at an extreme distance.”

“Charming,”

“Were you really going to duel him? You told me once you’d do anything for your mates. Wasn’t he one of them?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“You heard what he said, wasn’t about to let that slide,”

“He said it about me, why should it bother you?” Sherlock glanced at John but he did not reply.

“Is that the real reason why you never went down to The Three Broomsticks? Before, I mean. Because people would say things like that.” John lay down on his mattress.

“Obviously. I’ve sent more people to the hospital wing than you can count for saying things about her, and off school grounds I just had more freedom to try all the nasty curses I knew. Mycroft seemed to think it best that I not,” Sherlock confessed.

“I thought you said you’re not that good a duelist,”

“I said I’m not as good as Adler. And even that’s debatable.”

“Sherlock, I hate to point this out to you, but we seem to be having a slumber party,”

“Stake out, totally different,” Sherlock lay back on his mattress, barely a few centimeters from John’s.

“It’s too bad I don’t have my copy of _Witch Weekly_ , maybe next time,”

“John you continually amaze me. I’ve just told you that I’m a nearly invincible duelist and you choose to provoke me while we’re alone with no chance of being interrupted.”

“No chance of being interrupted, don’t get ideas will you,”

“I told you John, not my area,”

“Right, so I take it we’re going to both stare at the ceiling all night while you periodically observe your glowing wand for data points”

“We can talk if you’d like,”

“What about? I am not going over Triwizard spells tonight,”

“I’ve read all of Harry Potter’s memoirs,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“What the actual heck? Why?”

“When I was about ten. His series about his experience during the second wizarding war. He was my hero growing up, embarrassingly enough,”

“No that’s really sweet Sherlock, it is,”

“Shut up, John,”

“I mean it. Though I preferred Spiderman myself,” John offered.

“Spiderman?”

“Muggle comic, you wouldn’t know it,”

“Ah,”

“The first time I discovered I had magic was when I blew up our dishwasher,”

“I’ll bet your mother was furious,” Sherlock chuckled, “How’d they take it when they discovered you were a wizard?”

“Well they went through the shock the first time with Harry. So it wasn’t as bad when they found out I had it too,” John explained.

“Makes sense. Who came around to tell you?”

“Professor Longbottom. Both times. You should have seen mum’s face the first time he apparated to the front step.”

“And your father?”

“He never really cared for magic really,”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I dunno,” John shrugged, “Never really thought about it I guess. Jealousy maybe? I mean later he sort of correlated it with Harry being the way she was,”

“That’s ludicrous. There’s absolutely no correlation between homosexuality and magic.”

“Well try telling that to him. Wait how did you know Harry’s—nevermind. He hated both things separately I suppose. And then hated them together.”

“Neither thing is anything wrong or unnatural John, he’s being completely illogical,” Sherlock turned to look at him, “You know that don’t you? It’s obvious.”

“Sherlock why was Harry Potter of all people your hero?” John asked, and the only thing he could hear besides his own voice and the chirping of the crickets outside was Sherlock’s steady breathing.

“You don’t want to know, young Wi—Sherlock was a sentimental idiot,”

“You were about to use another name, before you said Sherlock, that’s how you sign your notes too. Professor W.S.S. Holmes,”

“Your point?”

“What does it stand for?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That’s the whole of it.”

“So before you were William. And then later you chose to become Sherlock,”

“That’s essentially correct yes,”

“Why did William idolize Harry Potter?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Potter’s story is that of an orphan who never belonged who finally found a place where he did. I think William thought he would do the same. Like I said. Sentimental idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s idiotic of him at all,” John said softly.

“Go to bed John,” Sherlock remarked as he whipped out a notebook and wrote down a few details about the curse trails.

“Good night Sherlock, I hope you dream of dark magic and dueling and curses,”

“Night John, pleasant dreams to you too,”


	16. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally matches wits with Moriarty.

Any romantic notions John may have had about sleeping with Sherlock were permanently dashed. The man was the most intolerable bed partner imaginable. Sure, they had separate mattresses, but that didn’t prevent John from waking up every hour or so as Sherlock got up to check the tracking spell and frantically take down notes before plopping down again, displacing the sheets and interrupting his attempts to fall back asleep. When he wasn’t doing that he would toss and turn incessantly, then suddenly sit up, say things like, “Of course,” “Obvious”, or John’s favorite, “It’s diagonal because of the phoenix paradox, how could I miss it?” 

And after all that the git had the nerve to shake him awake so early in the morning it was still a bit dark, “Now that you’ve had some rest, and I have my data I think it’s time we went back, don’t you?”

“I am never sleeping with you again,”

“That’s a bit harsh, I did bare my soul to you last night, and this how you take advantage of me,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, then flicked his wand a few times and the mattresses and sheets disappeared, “You don’t really have a choice,”

“I actually hate you,”

“I’m sure,” he pulled John to his feet, “Now come along, crime never sleeps,”

***

“My, my the entire Triwizard Committee,” Sherlock noted as they passed the hospital wing doors.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Harry Potter stepped forward, “Where have you been all night, Professor?”

“Triwizard coaching, very intensive,” John said quickly.

“I can see zat,” Madame Delacour-Weasley glanced at their rumpled clothing and had led them into the hospital wing over John’s repeated assertions of ‘It’s not what you think’

They came to a standstill next to a curtained off bed. And Sherlock saw a rather famous face pull it back. That bushy hair was unmistakable.

“At this rate of deterioration she has exactly five hours left,” the witch pulled back the curtain, “They thought I could be of help. But I’ve never been into this _branch_ of magic. We hoped you could shed some light on it.”

“You can just say it if you want, it’s dark magic,” Sherlock surveyed the frozen features of the girl in the bed and the strange green lines going across her face, “It’s ingenious. It’s a watered down version of the killing curse.”

“Yeah, try not to sound so impressed,” Ron said, “Can you fix it? Or at least stop it?”

“He’s only trying to help, Ron,” Hermione smiled, “Please go on, Professor Holmes,”

“After all this time, just because he’s a _teacher,_ ” Ron whispered to Harry.

“Well, give me a bit, I’ll have to do some more analysis to make sure this matches the aura left by the killing curse. And then I’ll try to determine a countercurse. In the meantime, take this notebook, I traced the origin of another unforgivable curse in Hogsmeade last night, see if you can find whoever’s responsible.”

“Sherlock, I think _he_ did this. Five pips. You have five hours. It’s some sick challenge,” John said disgustedly.

“Yes, it is a challenge isn’t it?”

“Sherlock, are you listening? She could die. Act like you care about that.”

“And will caring about that help me save her?”

“No,” John said finally.

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”

***

Four more pips. Four more victims. Four more curses. Each time one hour less to solve it. John hated to admit it, but Sherlock appeared to be thriving.

Until they came to the final one. And it hit unexpectedly close to home.

“I’ll kill him,” John said, “He did this on purpose.”

“Of course he did this on purpose John, he does everything on purpose. But don’t worry. I solved the others. I can solve Mary.”

“Yeah well I can’t watch it this time,”

“They still haven’t gotten anywhere finding our man with the imperious curse, see if you can help with that,”

John stalked out as Sherlock pored over Mary’s frozen form with interest, eliminating several dozen known curses and thinking about what Moriarty could have possibly done to her.

“Hermione,” Sherlock said, they had been seeing a lot of each other of the past few days.

“Sherlock, what is it? How can I help?”

“I lied, what I told John just now, I can’t solve this one, no one can.”

“Why not Sherlock? What’s he done to her?”

“I could bring her back. I can undo the surface curse. But if she wakes up, she won’t be the same.”

“Oh no. You don’t mean—“

“Exactly. Whoever’s behind this. He’s tampered with her mind.”

***

Thirty two minutes were remaining.

“Why can’t we just barge in there and nab Moriarty?” John whispered to Sherlock as he paced down the hospital wing.

“There’s a reason I told you not to mention that, or anything regarding him to the Triwizard committee, we have no idea it’s actually him. For that matter, it could _not_ be him too.”

“But you think it is.”

“No one else has the skill necessary. Well perhaps me, but I’ve eliminated myself as a suspect. But the fact is, his involvement is impossible to prove. And I can’t do anything rash. Accusing him would create an international incident. I have no proof!” Sherlock hissed furiously.

“Wake her up then, maybe she can tell us,”

“None of the others could tell us about their attacker, she won’t be any different,”

“Sherlock you said your father helped nab death eaters working as a double agent. Maybe he knows something about Moriarty that could help us here.”

“Great idea, you go talk to him. Report back.”

“Sherlock,”

“Oh fine.”

***

“I need your help,” Sherlock burst into his father’s room at the inn, “It’s urgent,”

“Anything, William, you name it,”

“When you were working as a double agent, where you ever at Durmstrang?”

“Several times, son,”

“Do you remember them practicing a branch of dark magic known as psychoconversion? It’s a bit obscure.”

“I reported back to our ministry about it, I’m familiar,”

“Great, I’m not. There aren’t that many surviving reports about the technique. It was banned here. And you probably had a hand in classifying the intelligence you gathered. But I need you to tell me about it. Someone’s life hangs in the balance.”

“Well the essence of it is, you’re trying to change someone’s personality, but it’s gruesome because it’s a kind of erasure. You’re taking away who they are slowly to make room for what you want.”

“So you could, hypothetically, use this to turn people against their own friends? Bend them to your ends in a way more permanent than the Imperious curse?”

“That is the idea, yes, you can see why I had it banned,”

“Remarkable, so once the process was started, was it reversible?”

“Yes, we rescued one victim, and were able to turn back the curse to some degree. She was almost the same. But that was with the help of Lord Moran, and he was a piece of work, you won’t find any dark wizards around here of his ilk, even his son Seb, from what I’ve heard is tame in comparison,”

“You saw Lord Moran perform the counter-curse?” Sherlock asked, “You were there?”

“Yeah I was, but you don’t want to do this son, it _affected_ him, he sort of absorbed it,”

“You don’t need to start looking after me now, I’m strong enough to handle it,”

“William, please”

“Tell me exactly what he did, don’t leave anything out,”

***

Sherlock strode towards Mary. Eight minutes remaining. He performed exactly what his father had seen all those years before, and she woke up just as promised. But upon seeing Sherlock, instead of the frightened relief of the other victims, there was fear. She screamed.

“Get him away from me!” she shrieked, “He’s the one that did it!”

And John would have moved him out of her sight, if not for the fact that Sherlock had already collapsed. He was sweating profusely even as he was lifted into a hospital bed far from Mary’s in the same wing. Curtains had been drawn around hers while shocked whispers filled the air.

“What the hell did it do to him?” John demanded of Sherlock’s father.

“What it did to Lord Moran, I warned him, he’s going to regress,”

“Regress?” John asked, “What do you mean, regress?”

“Absorbing the spell from Mary will wreak havoc on his own mind. He’s going to become previous versions of himself. He’s not going to know where he is. Or why he got there. His mental state’s going to be seriously unstable.”

“How long does it last?”

“Well, Moran was long gone for years, but Sherlock’s stronger, he and his brother, they have this rationality complex, he’ll snap himself out of it in a week or so. I don’t think the curse on the girl was nearly strong as the one Moran broke anyway. Thank goodness.”

“But until then, he might be William,”

“He told you about that?” Sherlock’s father asked, surprised.

“I think it might be best if you’re not around him for a while. No offense. But the current Sherlock can barely handle you being here. Let alone younger versions of him you’re saying are going to pop up throughout the week.”

“None taken, I’m just glad he’s talking to me again, and now that I’ve been of help on this, who knows? He might even really forgive me,”

“If I were you I wouldn’t push my luck,” a cold voice appeared from behind.

“Mycroft, what took you so long? I’ve been sending you owls all day.” John demanded.

“I was needed in London,” Mycroft said simply, mentally marveling at the similarities between the still, sleeping forms of Violet Holmes and her younger son, “Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?”

***

Exactly a day ago John had told the great git he would never sleep with him again, yet he found himself keeping an odd sort of vigil next to his hospital bed. Trying hard to fall asleep in this hard, uncomfortable chair Hermione Granger herself had brought up for him. It was funny. Mary’s bed was just a few cots down. Any other year he would have been by her side. People had said they would look perfect together. And she was. He smiled ruefully, how it would have pleased mum if he had grown up and married Mary. A perfect Mrs. Watson.  

But instead he found himself by Sherlock’s side. Long after the Triwizard committee, a handful of more healers that came in from St. Mungo’s, Mycroft, and Sherlock’s father had filed out. And here, in the dark, he felt a sudden wave of dread. Mary had screamed when she saw Sherlock. Right in front of everyone. Now John was sure they would suspect him. After all, Sherlock had said himself Moriarty was the only one capable of performing that kind of dark magic. But was he? Sherlock had clearly demonstrated his own ability to perform dark magic in front of them all. And what was more, the second task drew closer and closer. With Sherlock in this state what chance did they stand? Had this been Moriarty’s plan all along?


	17. A Week With William

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically Sherlock is temporarily insane and John is a saint.

The first thing Sherlock said when he woke up was ‘water’, which John then brought him, casting Aguamenti into a cup he grabbed off the bedside table.

“Why am I here? It was the damn curse wasn’t it,” Sherlock said, and John brightened at the idea that he might be his normal self, but then he sat up, “I really must be heading back to Ravenclaw Tower,”

“Ravenclaw Tower,” Harry murmured, “The real Sherlock’s twenty-two now, so he’s at least gone five years back,”

“We can’t let him go to Ravenclaw Tower, he doesn’t know anybody there anymore,” Hermione pointed out.

“Well you can’t keep him here,” John said as Sherlock curiously regarded them all.

“Stick him in the Room of Requirement. That way everytime he snaps back to a different point in time. He’ll be exactly where he needs to be,” Ron suggested.

“Ron that’s genius!” Hermione exclaimed.

“It’s been known to happen,” Ron sighed, “Always the tone of surprise.”

***

Another time John might have found this funny. They were sitting in the Room of Requirement, in what appeared to be Ravenclaw Tower, but the décor kept changing as Sherlock moved back and forth on his own timeline. And every time he would interrogate John.

“Where has everyone gone?”

“Who are you?”

“Is this a dream? Why do I feel dazed?”

On good runs he would keep to himself, grab some of the books that had materialized and study. Drawing diagram upon diagram of complicated curse theory.

On bad runs he would pace about the tower, deducing John over and over again. Sometimes John even managed to explain to him the situation he was in. About psychoconversion and how he had absorbed the curse and was floating through his own timeline. But every time the younger Sherlock had finally gotten it, and had come to the same page as John, he flipped again. It was infuriating, but for some reason John couldn’t be mad. At least not at Sherlock.

Mycroft had warned him to keep calm when the years abroad appeared. Which they hadn’t yet at any rate. Sherlock at Hogwarts was more or less the Sherlock he was now. Personally John was afraid of meeting William, the younger Sherlock. What could he possibly say to him?

Hermione meanwhile had told him to mark down the times of the switches as best he could. Though the most minute changes in the tower were hard to catch, Sherlock had a pretty characteristic reaction whenever a new run began, and John was managing to see a trend. The amount of time Sherlock’s phases lasted was growing longer. Over the past six hours it had gone from around fifteen minutes each to thirty.

John looked around as the surroundings changed drastically for the first time. They were suddenly in a house. In the living room. The same living room, John noted, as the one he had seen in Sherlock’s worst memory, all that time ago. Oh god, he thought. He’s dropped lower.

“It was a clever trick my mind played on me,” Sherlock said, “Bringing me back here.”

“Is that you Sherlock? Is that really you?”

“Of course it’s me John, don’t be ridiculous, you weren’t looking forward to meeting 10-year old me were you?”

“No,” John sighed in relief, “I mean that would have been fine. But I prefer, this you. To talk to. How’d you escape it?”

But John, as always had spoke too soon.

“Sorry, who are you?” Sherlock asked, “Mycroft? There’s a stranger in the house,”

It sent a chill down John’s spine hearing those words. The words of a child in Sherlock’s deep voice.

“Who are you?” Sherlock repeated, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m John, John Watson, remember me?”

“Do we know each other?” Sherlock asked, sitting down on the couch and crossing his arms, “I don’t remember you. And I remember everything.”

“I’m a friend of…um…Harry Potter,” John improvised.

“Harry Potter?” Sherlock seemed interested, “Fascinating. Can I meet him?”

“You will—I mean sure. Yeah. I’ll let him know.”

“John Watson. You must be muggle-born. That’s not a pureblood name.”

“Good deduction, does that bother you?”

“Not me no. It might bother my father. But he’s not here right now. But you said ‘good deduction’. Why’d you say that? We really do know each other don’t we?”

“Yes, we do,” John said, hoping he could get through to the _real_ Sherlock.

“Are you my friend? I don’t have friends. Mycroft says friends make you weak.”

“He’s wrong then, I am your friend.”

“Mycroft’s never wrong,” Sherlock said.

“Look, this isn’t you, you’re twenty-two. You’re a professor at Hogwarts.”

“You’re insane,” Sherlock said, “How could that possibly be true, John?”

“It is true!” John exclaimed.

“Want to play Gobstones?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Gobstones?”

“Yes, I hate being redundant. Your insanity is boring. And I’m bored. Let’s play Gobstones.”

“Your family won’t mind you playing Gobstones in the living room with a complete stranger.”

“I’ve done odder things,” Sherlock shrugged, as a Gobstones set suddenly materialized, “Wow. Did you do that? You must be a great wizard.”

“No that’s you,” John said before he could stop himself.

“Me? Fascinating. You go first”

***

“Two days with psycho-Sherlock, and you haven’t cracked,” Mycroft remarked.

“Hasn’t been easy,” John laughed, “I catch up on a lot of my schoolwork when he’s my age. And then when he’s a kid we play a lot of Gobstones. And at one point he was six and could still beat me in Wizard’s Chess.”

“Interesting. It seems his subconscious mind is trying to protect you by not becoming him the way that he was in his years abroad. Ages eighteen through twenty-one aren’t showing up. But you said he tried to break out. At some point he knew you.”

“He’s definitely fighting it. And at this point each round is about two and a half hours. So that’s tolerable. I suppose.”

“I must let you know John he needs to break out of this madness quickly if he is to stand a chance at clearing his name. No formal accusation has been made yet, but I fear one might be coming.”

“Can’t you stall for time?”

“I am. Why do you think I’m here myself? Though I hate legwork. So tedious.”

***

The inevitable happened in the middle of a chess game. John was finally beginning to win. He strongly suspected Sherlock of being four, but it still counted. When suddenly the room changed to a sparsely lit cabin and Sherlock cast a non-wanded curse that flung him to the wall.

“Who are you and how did you find me here? Did my brother send you?” Sherlock said cruelly as he tightened his fingers, which had the unpleasant effect of tightening the curse’s hold on John.

Just his luck, he had thought confiscating Sherlock’s wand for the present would protect him from something like this, but he had forgotten Sherlock’s skill.

“As a matter of fact he did send me, I know Mycroft Holmes, let me down, I know you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,”

Sherlock dropped him in shock and John massaged his neck.

“You can tell him I’ve tracked the chimaera. We’re moving further North. I’m going after it, whether he likes it or not. Do you understand? And anyway you look far too young to be on Mycroft’s payroll. Far too weak too, you didn’t even try to repel my curse.” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Hey,” John said, “I’m not weak, I was beating you at Wizard’s Chess a few minutes ago,”

“What? Anyway where’s my wand? I just had it here, and now it’s gone,”

“Don’t look at me mate,”

“Perhaps I will look at you, I think you’ve taken it, a curse or two ought to loosen your tongue I should think. It’ll be even better without my wand. I can be even more creative.” Sherlock cracked his knuckles.

“Hold on,” John said slowly, “You’re not going to do this to me. The real you would kill you for this.”

“The real me? Are you playing mind games? With _me_?” Sherlock laughed, “Fascinating.”

“No wait,” John said as Sherlock raised his hand, “Let’s dance instead. You love dancing. You’ve always loved it.”

“What the hell?”

“No, come on, we’ve done this before,” John grabbed this unwilling, murderous Sherlock’s hands, and forcibly pushed him into the dance, while a speaker popped up playing the Celestina Warbeck song.

“Do you have a death wish?” Sherlock asked as John twirled himself and led them into the same sequence from the night of the Yule Ball.

“Possibly,”

And then they were both spinning and dancing just as they had been. And one moment all of a sudden Sherlock stopped them both, and John was afraid he would be cursed into oblivion when Sherlock instead looked into his eyes with a gleam of understanding, “John, it’s you, John Watson, you keep me right,”


	18. The Second Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before she 'died' Violet Holmes left a note for her younger son Sherlock. He hasn't let go of it since.

“You know your father doesn’t seem that bad, I talked to him, seemed like all he wants is reconciliation,” John pointed out.

“Of course he’s doesn’t seem bad, John, why do you think he made such an excellent double agent? For that matter how do you think he had a son like Mycroft? The man knows exactly how to behave to get what he wants,” Sherlock paced about the room of requirement, which had now taken on the appearance of his office in the dungeons, “Why won’t they let me out of here? I’m fine now.”

“They said at least six hours stable,”

“Damn it. How long was I gone?”

“Four days, do you remember any of it?”

“No, I was in my mind palace, reorganizing files. Luckily it was all pretty meticulous to begin with. I didn’t do anything too odd did I?”

“You tried to kill me,”

“Right, again, sorry about that,”

“We played a lot of games,”

“Gobstones, right? I used to love that,”

“And Wizard’s Chess,”

“You ever win?”

“No, I didn’t win, not even once,”

Sherlock smiled a little too smugly, “Well we’re never doing that again,”

“No we are, I’ve had a lot practice with the way you play,”

“Please, John, if I could take you when I was mentally six, do you really think you stand a chance now?”

“Hey no, you have to be nice to me, or I won’t get you that meeting I promised you with Harry Potter,”

“Oh god not that again,”

“I had to say something to get you to trust me,”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, pausing just slightly and glancing at John before continuing to pace about.

“You don’t have to thank me,” John replied quickly.

“No, really, I can be pretty hellish, and I was…or would have been…afraid…being here all alone—“

“It’s fine, Sherlock,”

“The dance that brought me back, why that, of all things?”

“Um. I’ve always thought people are most themselves when they’re having fun. You said that was us having fun,”

“That’s brilliant, John”

“Can I get a tape of you saying that?”

***

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_This letter, it’s my note. That’s what people do. Spell out their feelings in writing. Leave a record before they go away for a while. Is it not customary to do so? Leave a note. Eternal love is what I leave you for the present. I thought I should tell you. Youth is fleeting. Spend the days ahead collecting all the joys of life that you can, my son. I hope we will be reunited, though it may be a while. I think we shall be. Will you like that? Give my love to Mycroft. Return to your studies with due diligence, I think you shall be a great wizard one day. I only hope you can learn to be happy. For that is a greater challenge than all the curses and charms you strive to learn. Until then, know that it is with you that I am the most happy. You are the light in the darkness._

_Yours,_

_Mother_

Sherlock had read it too many times to count. He had memorized it completely, but always had it with him in the pocket of his robes. After she had died he had cried for so long he had become dehydrated. He hadn’t spoken to anyone for months. And when he did it was to ask that her books be kept the way they were. And then he had set about to reading them. Violet Holmes had been quite the scholar, and he would honor her memory by being the same. He only realized now, at the age of twenty-two, that perhaps he had not done her memory justice after all. She had expressly asked him not to squander his youth. To seek life’s joys. Yet he had sunken deeper and deeper into wand lore, and dragonology and experimental magic. Fallen into darkness even as she had said that he had been her only light. 

“What are you reading?” John asked.

“Her last note to me,” Sherlock was about to stow it away but then handed it to him, “I want you to read it,”

“No, I couldn’t. I’m sorry I asked.”

“John, please. Read it. It would mean a lot to me. As a friend.”

“Alright,” John took the note gingerly, and read it slowly.

“Well?”

“She loved you a lot Sherlock, I wish I had something better to say, why did you want me to read this?”

“I thought it would help you to understand,”

“Understand what?”

“I needed her, John. And she left. That’s why I don’t care. About people. About things that go on. It’s perfectly logical. If you don’t care, you can never lose.”

“That’s not what she wanted for you,”

“Well, you know what,” Sherlock said a bit brokenly, “If that’s not what she wanted then she should have stayed.”

And before John knew it he was hugging Sherlock Holmes in the middle of the room of requirement. Right in the spot the man had threatened to kill him a few hours before. The force of it caused Sherlock to step back in surprise.

“You know John it’s not exactly normal for guy friends to spontaneously embrace,”

“Well we’re doing it anyway, you said it yourself, normal’s boring,”

***

“Honestly, everyone named ‘Holmes’ gives me the creeps,” Ron said as soon as the three of them were alone.

“They’re not that bad,” Hermione insisted, “Without Sherlock we wouldn’t have been able to revive those poor children,”

“No I’ve done my research this time. So you’ve got the dad. Who was allegedly a double agent. But knows way more about dark magic than I’m comfortable with. The mom. Who was an experimentalist. Then Mycroft. Who’s self explanatory. And Sherlock. Who’s somehow at the center of this curse business.”

“Ron, you’ve got it all wrong. Just because they all happen to be brilliant and a bit outside the norm doesn’t mean—“

“Hermione, you have to look at the facts, how was he the only one able to break these curses? And that last blonde girl, she screamed when she saw him, I think he could be behind it all,” Ron retorted.

“That’s exactly what Voldemort made people think when he framed Hagrid,” Harry pointed out, “And there’s lots of ways to explain what we saw. Polyjuice potion for one.”

“Harry one of the students cursed was from Beauxbatons. And another from Durmstrang. If we don’t investigate him it’ll look like we’re favoring him because he’s a Hogwarts teacher,” Hermione went on, “Just leave it to me. We’ll include him as a possible suspect. But I won’t take any action until we have indisputable proof.”

“Fine,” Harry relented, “But he tipped me off to investigate the Durmstrang champion as well. Though he insisted we keep it a secret.”

“Of course we’re keeping it a secret and investigating, that’s what we do,” Ron grumbled, “Just for once. One time. Can we be at Hogwarts and there not be a crisis?”

“At least this time around you got to take me to the Yule Ball,” Hermione smiled.

“Well there’s that. After all, you are a girl, and Krum didn’t seem to be available, and it would have been completely lame if I showed up alone. Hero of the Second Wizarding War and everything.”

“And we’re married,”

“That too,”

***

Mycroft looked at the pile of letters on his desk and pushed half to the side automatically for the junior undersecretary to deal with. What with Sherlock’s temporary insanity and the attacks at Hogwarts he hardly had time for petty bureaucracy today.

He was about to do the same with the note brought to him just then by an unusually small, pure white, Snowy owl, when he had the strange inclination that he recognized the handwriting.

_Dearest Mycroft,_

_Not sure when this will reach you. Hopefully hasn’t been too long. Read Sherlock’s note. First word. Every other sentence._

_Yours,_

_Mother_

_***_

“Oh Violet, you’ll thank me for this, I know you planned to send the second note yourself when you woke up, but whoops, you didn’t.” a man with a manic glint in his eye said nonchalantly as he stood by the bed of the still-frozen Violet Holmes.

“Your sonny boy will be oh so thrilled, but I agree with you, it is a little cruel letting him think you woke up. It’s adorable though. Watching them squirm for their little _artifact_ in that precious tournament,” he grinned.

“Just between you and me. I’m a bit disappointed. All my life I've been searching for distractions. And you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you _and_ your sons. And you know what? In the end it easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary. Just like all of them. Oh well,” he shrugged casually.

“Didn’t mention my name did I? That was a bit rude of me. Though I’m entirely not sure you can see or hear me in there,” he turned to watch her, raising his hand in a mockingly childlike farewell, “Jim Moriarty. Bye.”


	19. The Second Task

In case anyone wants to listen to it as they go. Here's a link to [Vivaldi's 'The Four Seasons' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRxofEmo3HA) While they're dueling the part that's playing is still 'Winter'. 

>>>

It was one of the few pieces of classical music John knew. And now he could never listen to it again. Leave it to a Frenchman to design a challenge based on the worst elements of all the seasons and play the different parts of Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’ on repeat in each section. If he wasn’t simultaneously nursing frostbite and burns on the same leg he might have found it clever. As it was he just thanked the rote memorization of spellwork Sherlock had forced on him for getting him to the final circle alive. The snow monster in Winter and the wild fire creature he had dealt with in Summer had really taken out his ability to appreciate the magical intricacy of this task.

Now he just had to find Sherlock it seemed, and he didn’t have to look long. As he had stepped through into the final ring he found himself in a large circle. And there were three people suspended in ice blocks in the center. John smiled, he knew exactly the sequence of spells that would break him out of there, Sherlock had yelled at him for an hour about mastering defrosting.

“Where are the others?” Sherlock shivered as he came out of the trance like state he had been in whilst encased in ice.

“No idea,” John confessed, “If my luck holds they were eaten by the fire creature,”

But of course John had once again spoke too soon. Both other champions came striding into the circle as if on cue. Adler took only two spells to break a rather large, menacing looking gentleman from the ice hold, whereas John had required seven. Moriarty didn’t even approach the block holding a person John recognized as Sebastian Moran and appeared to use only one spell, completely nonverbal, and almost looked bored, as Moran fell to his knees as he was broken out. 

“You got my message in Hogsmeade. Thought you might call,” Moriarty said to Sherlock.

“Step back boys,” Adler said with an air of authority as the markings of a six-spoked wheel were drawn in the circle.

Each person would have a spoke to themselves, John realized, as he stepped into one, forcibly pushed by Sherlock while Sherlock stood in the one adjacent.

And then gaps appeared in the circle where there weren’t spokes, revealing a steep drop into a black void, the one end of each spoke rose, see-saw like, and they were suddenly all at different heights.

“Sherlock what’s going on?” John asked.

“It’s a duel, John,” Sherlock warned, “Get ready,”

But John really wasn’t, and when his spoke jerked up suddenly to match the height of Sebastian Moran’s he saw that Sherlock was right. Three pairs of two were now created. And it appeared that he had to duel Sebastian Moran until one of them fell backwards into the black void. Great. Now he really missed that fire creature.

 _Last champion standing wins._ Lestrade’s deep voice boomed.

Adler faced Moriarty. Sherlock faced Adler’s companion.

And then they dueled.

John found himself casting the first thing that came to mind as Moran cast curse after curse at him. It was a strange miracle that he hadn’t lost yet, he thought, as he dodged, and cast the defensive spells he had memorized.

“Cast the experimental spells we worked on, there are no defensive spells to match!” Sherlock shouted, and John wish he had time to turn and thank him

 _Excaecari._ John thought fiercely. The blinding spell from that first session with Sherlock. And sure enough, Moran faltered, and was completely blind.

“Stupefy!” John yelled, and felt a wave of relief as Moran tumbled backwards and his spoke slowly sank.

Moriarty and Adler’s companion fell backwards at the same time. And as happy as John was that his friend had won, he was a tad bit disappointed he hadn’t been able to see him work his skill. Oh well, John thought, he had clearly been otherwise occupied, trying not to fall into a void.

But his heart sank when he saw the spokes realign, and face Adler against Sherlock.

They spoke with their wands but not their mouths. Sherlock didn’t break eye contact with her once. John stood there awed as a stream of light from Sherlock summoned a tidal wave out of nowhere behind Adler that was cast aside by a giant steel shield projected from her side.

Tendrils of flame erupted from her wand and were swallowed by snakes that came from his.

He smiled coldly as a flick from his side caused the entire wheel to spin, while she responded in kind by cracking the ceiling of Monsieur Lestrade’s arena and sending down an avalanche of concrete.

Then suddenly she cast _Expelliarmus_ , as he was busy countering the falling blocks and John stared in horror as Sherlock’s wand was thrown out of his hand. He knew the rules of dueling forbade him to interfere, but he brought out his wand out of instinct and gulped as he watched Sherlock fall backwards into the void. He knew he was done for now.

But Sherlock suddenly reappeared on another spoke. And another. And suddenly there were four Sherlocks.

“Sorry, I know they don’t allow _illusory_ at your club in France, welcome to England,” one of the Sherlocks said as all four cast at her.

And though she turned all about her, in a last ditch effort to determine which was the real Sherlock, she was hit square in the chest by a red stream of light and fell backwards.

John laughed, “You scared me there for a second, Sherlock, but I suppose we’re done now, we won,”

“Not so fast John,” Sherlock sighed as the extra three of him disappeared, “You didn’t think it’d be that easy do you. Lestrade’s full of his own tricks.”

John looked down and understood, the spokes were gradually rearranging so that he would face Sherlock, “The rules said ‘Last champion standing’. I have to duel you. And I have to win. In order for this to end.”

Sherlock nodded, “And I can’t simply let you win. Clever, that is. Pitting you against the thing that’s most precious to you.”

“You know I can’t beat you Sherlock,” John said as they were almost directly across from each other, “What am I going to do?”

“I’ve thought of everything,” Sherlock said, “You can’t beat me. But I can control the regressions now. And you can beat William,”

John watched as they finally faced each other, and Sherlock’s face froze and unfroze, “Guess we’re not playing Gobstones this time, are we John?”

“I’m sorry about this,” John said as he cast _Expelliarmus_ at Sherlock repeatedly, who to his absolute shock repelled them with relative ease.

“Is that the best you can do?” he asked, “I thought you said you were a friend of Harry Potter. I expected better.”

So now what? John thought. For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to really curse the kid Sherlock. But Lestrade’s voice had said ‘Last champion standing’, he was the ‘Last champion standing’ no matter whether he beat Sherlock or not. Of course. It wasn’t what Sherlock had thought at all. He had already won. Now they just had to be brave enough to jump.  

“We don’t have to duel Sh-William. I already won. We’ll jump together,” he said.

“I’m afraid,”

“Take my hand,” John walked across the spoke towards him, “Together,”

“Together,” Sherlock repeated, and they jumped.


	20. To Live Forever, Die, or Burn

“From what you saw Moriarty let Adler win. But why would he do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s all part of the plan,” Sherlock sat at his desk, his real desk this time, and racked his mind for a solution.

“Nice touch with the age regression, though it’s weird how you can control that,”

“All the old files that were dug up when I absorbed the curse from Mary had to go somewhere. Now that I can access them I really have to applaud your patience. I counted three hundred games of Gobstones.”

“Three hundred and three. Six were interrupted halfway and we started over. Since I know you love technicality.”

“Yes, especially that detail I dug up about Adler’s dueling club. Dead useful. Illusions.”

“It was pretty scary. Four Sherlocks. It reminded me of that thing Loki did in the first _Thor_ movie.”

“John I don’t watch Muggle films, we’ve been over this, and I’m not watching that _Bond_ thing you keep going on about,”

“Sherlock you would love it. We’ll get some on DVD some time. You can watch the new _Star Trek_ movie with me too. With that Benedict Cumberbatch fellow. He’s a dead ringer for you.”

“John I am not watching something starring a person with a name as ridiculous as _Benedict Cumberbatch_.”

“That’s rich coming from someone named ‘Sherlock Holmes’”

“Holmes is not a terribly uncommon name. Sherlock means fair-haired. What does ‘Cumberbatch’ mean? A batch of cucumbers? Please.”

“Whatever, you’re missing out. Muggle entertainment is great.”

“I’ll watch a _Bond_ thing if you commit these spells to memory,” Sherlock handed John a heavy book.

“Two movies, you’ll be hooked,”

“Fine,”

***

_Sherlock,_

_I require mother’s note. I am a little irritated you never told me she left one. A copy will be fine._

_\--MH_

_Mycroft:_

_How did you come to know about it now? I won’t show you until you tell me._

_\--SH_

_Sherlock,_

_Don’t be a child. This is important._

_\--MH_

_Mycroft:_

_See attached._

_\--SH_

***

Mycroft carefully looked over the first word of every other sentence, then wrote down the final message, _This spell is eternal youth. I will return for you._

He considered it for a few minutes. Then realized with a shock what it meant. She had been planning to wake up all along. But something had gone wrong. And if he managed to wake up Violet Holmes now, she would be immortal.

***

“Moriarty’s clean,” Harry said simply.

“That’s impossible, how can he be clean?” Sherlock asked, “There’s no one else capable of this.”

“We didn’t find anything on him. The rest of the evidence points to you. I’m sorry. And I want you to know that I argued for you in this. I’ve been in your shoes before. But this isn’t my decision to make. You’re going to be held under a strict watch here at the castle until the real culprit is found.”

“You can’t do that. Don’t you see what’s going on? Don’t you get it? That’s what _he_ wants. John needs me to prepare for this tournament. Please, try to understand,”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I really am,”

***

Sherlock reclined in his regular room in the dungeons, watching the flickering of the magical force field Potter had put up to contain him. He reached for his wand and swore as he remembered that it too had been taken from him. Damn everything.

“Come to finish me off?” he asked bitterly as James Moriarty opened the door and stood on the other side of the forcefield.

“Kill you? Eh, no. Don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no. If you don't stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.”

“But we both know that's not quite true. Well. I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

“Catch you…later” Sherlock said as he closed his eyes.

“No you won’t!”


	21. Mr. & Mrs. Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft got EVERYTHING from their parents.

_Thirty-two years Earlier-Durmstrang School Library_

“You’ve been here every night this week, not quite finding what you’re looking for?” a dashing high-cheekboned man blocked Violet’s path to the door as the clock struck eleven.

“Your fake accent needs work, you’re really British, I can tell, and if you don’t want anyone else to find out you’re a Ministry operative I expect you to leave me alone,” she hissed as she tried to go around him.

“What’s a pretty English rose like you doing in Durmstrang, love?” he seemed unperturbed and picked up a book from the stack she was carrying, “ _The Origin of the Killing Curse_ , _The Dark and Most Secret Art of Alchemy_ dark stuff darling, dark stuff, I’m almost impressed,”

“That’s nothing, just by looking at you I can deduce that you’re pure blood, an only child, rebelling against his parents’ authority by taking on this dangerous job, trying to beat a smoking habit, and only been on ministry payroll no more than five months,” she stood on her tiptoes so that she was level with his eyes, and mortifyingly enough found herself noting that they were quite pretty.

“Fantastic,” he said suddenly.

“Really? That’s not what most people say,” she said, looking him over suspiciously.

“What do most people say?” he grabbed some of the books to lighten her load, and to her surprise, she let him.

“Well either they assert that it’s no place for a girl to say such things. Or they imply that I kindly piss off... Say, I’ve heard you speak in quite a few languages to the people that come around here. Care to help me translate some of these? We are after all, two foreigners in a strange country. I could use a friend, and you’ve been staring at me from the counter all week anyway,” She said as stared at her, strangely fixated.

“The name’s Siger Holmes, it would be my pleasure,” he extended his hand, flashing her a smile.

She shook it, oddly giddy at the idea of striking up a friendship with an unknown man in a country where she was all alone, she hated to admit it, but she loved to live dangerously, “Violet Sherrinford, delighted to make your acquaintance,”

***

_(Ten months afterward)_

“Violet, you’re a genius,” he pored over her notes.

“Siger, you’ve expressed that in every variant of the English language,” she said, though she found herself blushing at the compliment.

“Not in every variant, I don’t think. How about this one? Violet, I love you.”

“Siger, I told you before, I-I consider myself married to my work,” she said nervously, shocked at the sudden admission, over the months they had become inseparable, and they were best friends, surely, even having moved into the same flat and staying in separate rooms, but she had never expected him to be so blunt about the feelings they both clearly had for each other.

“Marry me, Violet, and I’ll become one with the work, for you. We’ll finish it together,”

“Give me your word,” she demanded, though a part of her just wanted to surrender herself to him then and there.

“My life and my knowledge is yours and only yours, Violet, You, Me and the Work, now and forevermore” he swore, “Now, just say yes,”

“Yes,” she said as she kissed him, “Together we’ll bring a new meaning to being in love forever,”

_Twelve Years Earlier- The Ancient and Most Noble House of Holmes_

“We’re divorced, Siger, that means we don’t have to pretend we like each other on our anniversary anymore remember. What are you doing here on this of all days?” Violet climbed down the ladder in her large, circular library, putting down the books in her hand on the center desk, “We discussed this in court. I get the books, the house and the kids. If they’re what you’re here for you might as well clear out now.”

“No, Violet, I’m not here to bring up the theft of my property and my children, I’m here to discuss your recent acquisition of the _Flamel_ _Papers_ ,” he said icily.

“You could have sent your congratulations by owl post,” she shelved with her back towards him.

“You’re coming close, are you Violet?” he asked, “Closer than you were when we were together?”

“I don’t see how this is any business of yours.” She turned to glare at him.

“This family is my business,”

“You should have thought of that before you let my baby see you and that slut from town on our sofa,” she said between clenched teeth, “I had warned you before not to bring your filthy affairs into the house.”

“Oh don’t pretend to be the bigger person, tolerating me and my infidelity for the sake of the kids, only throwing me out when I, what was it you said in court, ‘scarred him beyond repair for the rest of his life’” he sneered, “You know you only kept me around long enough to use my secret knowledge of the dark arts for your plans,”

“There is nothing I love more than our boys, Siger. But this project does come a close second. As for you. Using you was just a bonus.”

“I’m just here to warn you. Don’t do it. For god’s sake, Violet. You’re meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in.”

“You’ve made your point. Now get out.”

“Before I go. Can I see them?”

“You can see Mycroft. I don’t want another incident like last Christmas with Sherlock. Your presence upsets him.”

He sighed, “Could you talk to him for me?”

“What would I say to him? His father and I got married due to our mutual love for experimentalism and dark magic. Had our first child not because we wanted kids but because we wanted to see how powerful a child of two already extremely powerful wizards could be. Our second on accident. Stayed together because we discovered that we hated each other and that we loved these children at around the same time. That his father slept around for years and I allowed it. That when finally I had enough he decided to beat me to it and left us all. And when he dragged his sorry arse back here I had the good sense to kick him out of our lives for good,” she snapped, “Is that what I should tell him?”

“Tell him I love him. Tell him his youth is fleeting and that he should spend the days ahead collecting all the joys of life that he can. Tell him to be happy. Because that’s a greater challenge than all the fantastic spells and great curses that we made together, Violet. Tell him he we were happiest when we were with him. Will you do that?”

She considered him a moment, “That was our little joke when he was born, remember, Siger? ‘Sherlock’ as his middle name even though he had curls as dark as mine. I’ll convey the message to him now. Though I’ll wait till things have cooled down to tell him the sentiments were yours as well as mine. He’s not in a good place right now, our little Wil-Sherlock, that’s what he wants to be called now.”

“‘Fair-haired’, the irony,”

“Because he was our light amidst our darkness,”

“Though not bright enough to save us from it, I’m afraid,”

“No, Siger, not bright enough,”


	22. The Family Tragedy

Siger Holmes had never quite come to terms with his wife’s death. The last time they had spoken in the library she had seemed intent on completing the work. From the glint in her eye he knew she had done it. Figured it out. And though the timing of her death fell exactly a week after he announced his engagement to Cecilia Hayward, and various acquaintances had mentioned that she had seemed preoccupied and morose in the months leading up to it, he knew Violet wouldn’t want to go out that way. So while publically he mourned her having taken her own life, privately he had ruled out suicide right away.

So that left the incantation. The work. The work had killed her, like he had known it would. There were some unknown consequences, repercussions that she hadn’t taken into account, and she must have paid the price for it. He had wanted to investigate, for her sake. See what had gone wrong. It was what she would have wanted. After she died he had even broken off the engagement, remembering his promise: You, Me and the Work. Now in her absence, it was just him and the Work. But that hadn’t been possible.

He remembered the funeral. Mycroft hadn’t even shed a tear. Standing stoic as always by the side of the casket. He, Siger, had not even been allowed to see her body. Only seventeen at the time, having graduated a year early from Hogwarts and taken employment at the ministry, Mycroft had taken care of all the arrangements himself. Sherlock on the other hand, only ten, had bawled his eyes out. Shouted some truly horrible things at him. That he was a monster. And a liar. And that it was his fault that she was dead. And he had taken it. Because what else could he do?

Over the years he had tried many times to request access to her files, but he had discovered they no longer existed. Mycroft had seemed keen to find them too, and they had briefly worked together only to find that she had somehow locked them away or destroyed, in any case they never got their hands on them. Siger had made sure too, to keep up his agreement with Violet. To not tell either of the kids the true nature of the work. All they would ever know was that their mother was a prolific experimentalist, nothing more. That she could not stomach the pain of life. And had left them. It was a pity, he thought. That they could never appreciate her for the great genius she truly was. Or the frightening beauty of what she had tried to do.

But he had accepted the reality of it. His family fractured beyond repair by dark magic. He often thought of her futile chase for ‘forever’, and cursed himself for having not argued with her more. But she had always been stubborn. She wouldn’t have listened. And gradually he had convinced himself to think no more of it.

So it was with surprise that day, soon after he heard the news that Sherlock had been detained within the castle, that he read the note delivered by a rather small Snowy owl.

_Siger,_

_If you’re reading this, it worked. I’ve written up this and another for Mycroft to send-off once I’ve woken up. Hopefully it didn’t take more than a week or two at most. I gave your message to Sherlock. Wrote him a little note like this one. Though only from me. I need to be around in person to tell him his father feels the same way. And I will. Tomorrow. I thought about what you said yesterday. About ‘You, Me, and the Work’ from all those years ago. Now that the work is almost complete I begin to see how blind I’ve been.  I too had a hand in destroying our happiness. My obsession drove you away. And what’s done is done between us. Yet our sons still need their father. Come back home. I’ll help Sherlock to forgive you. Like you once said to me a long time ago, I give you my word._

_\--Violet_

***

“Why are you staring like that? You afraid they’re right about me? That you’ve been taken in too?” Sherlock demanded, “Can’t you see what’s going on?!”

“No. I know you for real,” John paused, then went on, “Sherlock I think something else is going on here,”

“Do elaborate,”

“Moriarty wants me to win the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Why would he want that? From what I know, the advantage lies in winning. And a great deal more rides on that than simply school pride. Though I can’t say more.”

“Think about it though. He’s always had the upper hand because he’s knows things about which we’re still in the dark. He’s put things in motion. That whole deal with the curse victims. I think it was a distraction. To get you away from what he’s really after.”

“I’ve considered that to. But this is all idle speculation. We can’t assume his intentions if we have no data to go on.”

“It’s just a gut feeling. I’m meant to win. Get to that Triwizard Cup. And something’s going to happen.”

“Gut feeling alone is not good enough John. Get me my father. I need to get to the bottom of this,”

***

Sherlock noted that his father seemed visibly nervous as he sat down across from him and John left the two of them alone.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked coldly.

“I should ask you, you’re the one being restrained for a crime you didn’t commit. Though I’m quite familiar with how that feels like,”

“I have more questions about your time at Durmstrang, I don’t want to talk about mother,”

Siger laughed uneasily, “You can’t talk about Durmstrang without talking about your mother, son. That’s where we met.”

“Wrong. You two met at a ministry gala.”

“That’s what we told you, but it was all a lie, always secrecy with Violet,”

“Don’t talk about her like that. With what you made her do.”

“I didn’t do that to her, Sherlock, she did it to herself” he said wearily.

“Prove it,” he snapped.

“I had come around the day before, talked to her even. I was the last person to see her alive. We talked. I knew her better than anyone, son. She wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t her style.”

“Impossible. You never came around. I would have remembered.”

“She told me not to see you. You were very upset. She didn’t want a repeat of the ‘Christmas incident’. I agreed.”

“Justifiably upset. You had ran off with a girl only a little older than Mycroft.”

“Even so. I was there that day. I did talk to her.”

“What did you talk to her about?”

“A lot of things. Her work. The experimental magic she was working on. You.”

“What did she say about me?”

“She said you were the only thing she cared for more than the work.”

“What did you say?”

“A lot of things. That I loved you. That youth was fleeting and I wanted you to spend yours collecting all of life’s joys. And that I wanted you to be happy. That that was a greater challenge than all the curses and the magic. Then she said you were a light in the darkness. And I agreed.”

“My god, you’re telling the truth,” Sherlock looked up at him in shock.

“So she did give you the message, like she said,”

“It was in her suicide note, but, you’ve never seen the note, how did you know she gave me the message?” Sherlock squinted at him suspiciously, “Unless. She left you a note too. Sent by owl-post. Shortly before she…”

“Yes, she left me a note too, but I only just got it this morning,”

“What does it say?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I gave her my word.”

“Why does it matter? She’s dead.” Sherlock said bitterly.

“Maybe not,” Siger said before he could stop himself.

***

Mycroft could not trace the Snowy owl that had brought the note to the person that sent her. He had confirmed with the hospital that Mrs. Holmes’ state was unchanged, which deepened the mystery further. The handwriting, he had verified with some older documents, undoubtedly hers. Yet who had sent it? And why now? And could it possibly have anything to do with the Triwizard situation? His mind was racing.

All the answers he knew lay with her. If only she could wake up. Tell him everything. The artifact he knew was the only thing that could. Once he used it, she could explain. She could explain it all.

***

 “How long now Jim?” Sebastian asked.

“Now, now, be patient. My little notes did just the trick. John will win the tournament. Mycroft will wake up mummy dearest. She’ll tell us everything. And then she’ll really have to die. It is a bit boring though. Having everyone else do all the work for you. And not even know they’re doing it.”

“Why can’t we just take the artifact you’ve mentioned? Take the woman. And wake her up ourselves.”

“Too messy. You gotta admit this way’s sexier. Them completing their family tragedy. Sherlock will appreciate its elegance when he finds out. If he isn’t dead.”


	23. The Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John visit the grave of one Violet Sherrinford

“You know for once I can’t separate how much I want it to be true and whether it makes logical sense,” Sherlock said from behind the force field.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, her note doesn’t really read like a suicide note anyway. I mean it does when you’re sure that’s what it is. But if you’re not…”

“I noted that too. She uses ‘are’ instead of ‘were’. You are the light in the darkness. If she was writing with intent to die, I think she would have said ‘You were the light in the darkness’. Past tense.”

“Personally, it gave off the vibe of someone who was just going away for a bit. Not on vacation exactly, but just somewhere they wouldn’t be seeing you for a bit. She planned to come back.”

“I always thought it was curious that she didn’t apologize. If she was planning to take her own life she would have said something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry I have to do this. I see no other choice’. But she doesn’t. She says that she hopes we’ll be reunited. Which I always took to mean heaven, or the afterlife or something. But she never believed in all of that. It never made sense.”

“Unless she meant reunited in person. But there’s still things that don’t add up. You said you were at the funeral. There was a body. There is a grave.”

“I never saw her body,” Sherlock said, gasping, “Mycroft kept me from seeing it because he thought it would make me more upset. And he was right, I suppose. But I was so emotional about it all I didn’t think to argue. He was all I had left....Mycroft didn’t let my father see it either, I remember them having a row about that.”

“Sherlock, he was seventeen, you really think he could have orchestrated a cover up-this big?” John asked incredulously.

“Yes, without question, he had the resources to do it,” Sherlock sat down and put his head in his hands, “Oh, John, I don’t want to believe it. But my mind tells me she’s still alive.”

“So what do we do now?”

“There’s only two ways to know for sure. One, we could ask Mycroft. But that won’t lead us anywhere. The second option I really don’t want to do. I’ve never really had it in me to go down there before. But from what I’ve heard from my father. Going over the evidence with you. Balance of probability she’s still alive. And I think she might be in danger if she is.”

“Sherlock, are you sure you want to do this?”

“John I have to visit my mother’s grave and check it for concealment spells. Mycroft covers his tracks well, but I’m his brother, and I know exactly what I’m looking for. Now could you do the honors and break me out of here? We’ll try to get back before anyone notices I’m gone.”

“Yeah, alright. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Of course, I’d be lost without my Triwizard champion,”

***

They had gone down to Hogsmeade first then apparated to Godric’s Hollow, where the Holmes’ along with so many other wizarding families had lived and been laid down to rest. The gate creaked as it opened and John noted that it was the strangest day possible for a task so solemn. Birds chirping brightly, blue sky, sunlight streaming down on them both. Positively cheery, contrasting starkly with all the dark things that had been going on. Perhaps it was a good omen. Of lighter days ahead. 

John spotted it first, partially because he didn’t think Sherlock particularly wanted to find it just then, as he had seemed a bit reluctant ever since they set off.

_Violet Sherrinford_

_April 3 rd , 1966- April 3rd, 2003_

_Beloved mother_

_‘Life is the childhood of our immortality.’_

_\--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

“She must have picked the quote, I think I remember her reading Goethe,” Sherlock said, straining to fill the silence.

“They had a double plot here, before the divorce and all. She had gone back to her maiden name of course. It says only ‘Beloved mother’, not ‘Beloved wife’. Figures. You’ll also observe the fact that she died on her birthday, ironic.” Sherlock chattered mindlessly as he stared at the gravestone.

“What was her favorite flower?” John asked as he kneeled down.

“Daisies. Daisy was my grandmother’s name, they were very close,” Sherlock coughed into his coat.

John watched as the flowers grew from his wand and lay gently by the stone. He then got back up and grabbed Sherlock’s wand from his hand.

“Hey I need to check for—“

“In a minute, just take a minute,” John said, placing his own hand in Sherlock’s free one, “Alright?”

But Sherlock didn’t seem to have quite heard him, standing there in some kind of a trance, “She was remarkable,”

“Like mother like son,”


	24. A Deal with The Boy Who Lived

“She’s definitely alive then?” John asked for what felt like the hundredth time as they arrived back at Hogwarts.

“Well she isn’t in that graveyard. Mycroft was careful. But he probably never expected me to go looking. Whoever it is down there. It’s not her.”

“You can’t let him know that you know.”

“That’s difficult. You’ve clearly never tried keeping something from Mycroft. He’s me. Only better.”

“You said you can control the regressions now? How does that work exactly?”

“Well ever since I absorbed the curse. For small periods of time I can be other versions of myself.”

“So you from a few hours ago didn’t know your mother was still alive. Whenever you see Mycroft. Become him. That way your behavior won’t be any different. No one will notice.”

“Ingenious,”

“Meretricious.”

“That’s a role reversal for us now isn’t it?”

“Hey, I happen to have these moments occasionally. Let me enjoy it.”

“Oh fine. Though maybe we should stop holding hands now. We never wanted anyone but the Triwizard committee to think we were a couple. And they’ve kept pretty mum. Plus, seeing as we’re not _really_ a couple at all.”

“Right. People might talk,” John let go a touch reluctantly.

“Irritating isn’t it?” Sherlock stretched out his fingers, “They do little else.”

***

“Since I’ve done my share of sneaking out, I know you’ve only just returned,” Harry regarded Sherlock, who was sitting innocently back in his cell, “But. As I can’t prove it, I’m going to settle for asking where you went, and securing the force field a bit more strongly.”

“Godric’s Hollow. Though from the way it was secured before, one might almost assume you had wanted to give me the freedom to investigate loose ends if I so wished.” Sherlock saw no harm in answering him honestly, he was after all, no friend of Mycroft’s, and could prove a valuable ally in uncovering the truth.

“One could be right. Why Godric’s Hollow?”

“I, like you, have family buried there,”

“Bit of an odd time for a visit, looking for anything specific? Last time I went was possessed with a burning need to go I was looking for horcruxes.”

“He knows, he’s read all your books, big fan,” John offered from the corner.

“Shut up, John.”

“Sherlock, I’ll try to help you if I can,” Harry lowered his voice, “But you have to give me something to go on.”

“You have a high position in the auror office. Extremely high ministry security clearance. Could you investigate someone for me?”

“I’ve already told you there was nothing on Moriarty.”

“Not him. Someone rather close to my heart.”

“Mycroft Holmes?”

“No, I respect you but I wouldn’t ask you to do the impossible. I would ask you to investigate my mother, Violet Sherrinford, bring me all the data you can find. I believe it may have something to do with the Triwizard plot,” Sherlock said smoothly, though he wasn’t sure of that last bit, he had a hunch it might connect in the end.

“It could take a while.”

“I’ve got time,”

“Oh, Sherlock, just ask him,” John piped up.

“Ask me what now?” Harry asked confusedly.

“He wants to see the scar, he always has, um, to study the angle the curse hit you and everything but he’s always been too polite to ask,” John explained.

Harry lifted up his bangs and Sherlock observed with interest, the famous lightning bolt scar, “I suppose you better be heading off to investigate then?”

“Yeah, I’d request you two to stay put for the time being, or at least be as discreet as last time. I don’t think I could face Hermione if she knew I let you out.”

***

“You really had to bring it up didn’t you,”

“Of course I did,” John smiled, “Nice cover though wasn’t it? Angle of the curse nonsense I made up. You would have killed me if I had told him seven-year old you wanted to see it to make the costume accurate for when you would dress up as him.”

“John I’ve been trying very hard to block that memory out.”

“Hey you only asked me what the scar looked like _exactly_ and where _exactly_ it was about a hundred times,”

“I had no idea we were having the same conversation more than once,”

“You can never blame me for being redundant ever again,”

“But John, pointing out people’s flaws, it’s my only joy in life,”

“We need to find you a new hobby.”

“I don’t fancy myself knitting, making scarves and hats and things, ridiculous,”

“You’re right,” John said without thinking, the first thing that came to mind, “A hat would totally ruin those damn curls of yours,”

“I don’t think you meant to say that second bit out loud,”

“I don’t think I did either, delete it will you?”

“But I’m so touched. You find me irresistibly attractive,”

“No. I find you an irreverent arse,”

“An irreverent arse with great hair it seems. Though you should have continued being nice to me, I might have let you run your hands through it.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Right fine, you can probably try it next time I kiss you.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time.”

“That’s strange. I seem to recall you telling me I was the best kiss of your life. I think that warrants an encore, don’t you?”

“I hate you, I do,”

“I know, John, isn’t that what makes this so much fun?”


	25. The House of Cards

_Hogwarts Operative (ID#20476)-_

_Command 1307: Move up the third task. It must occur by the end of the month. Burn correspondence._

_-MH_

_Hogwarts Operative (ID#77908)-_

_Command 1307: Move up the third task. It must occur by the end of the month. Burn correspondence._

_-MH_

_Hogwarts Operative (ID#50643)-_

_Command 1307: Move up the third task. It must occur by the end of the month. Burn correspondence._

_-MH_

_Central Office:_

_Command 1307 received. Proceeding as ordered._

_-20476_

_Central Office:_

_Command 1307 received. Proceeding as ordered._

_-77908_

_Central Office:_

_Command 1307 received. Proceeding as ordered._

_-50643_

***

_John-_

_As I can’t send these to Sherlock, for obvious reasons, I’ve transmitted them to you over a secure channel. Harry let me in to the investigation. Here’s what I have so far:_

_At first I thought everything checked out fine. There were records of the birth of Violet Sherrinford on the date you indicated.  Records of passed magical competency examinations under her name, again correct dates. Prizes for charmwork. Dueling championships. Filed for a marriage license to your father Siger Holmes, record of marriage on the date you indicated. There is a Violet Sherrinford that was enrolled at Hogwarts during the time you indicated. But since you think there’s something being covered up here, I went to the only source that can’t be manipulated even by skillful fabrication. The Sorting Hat doesn’t remember sorting a Violet Sherrinford into Ravenclaw, as the record shows, but into Slytherin._

_Another error. Her official ministry designation says Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But a majority of the time she was working for the Department of Mysteries. Took a bit of digging to find that, but it isn’t that uncommon for people working in that department to have a public designation indicating something else._

_Last thing. She requested temporary leave to conduct research at the Durmstrang Institute shortly after joining up at the ministry. It was granted._

_Sorry I don’t have better news, or more of it. A lot of this stuff was pretty well buried._

_-Hermione Granger_

_Hermione-_

_Sherlock wants you to continue investigating. He’s gone a bit haywire trying to determine what she was really working on in the Department of Mysteries. He’s thinks it might help you to know about her wand: 9 inches, maple, rather exotic core: basilisk skin (she claimed it was dragon heartstring for years but Sherlock got it in the will and has used it ever since, when he got your last letter he did some experimentation and determined the true core…)_

_Good luck. Thanks again._

_-John_

_John-_

_The bit about the wand core was really helpful. It’s extremely rare and few wands have ever even been made with that core. I did a little research on it. It’s not a very well-known fact at all. But Grindelwald’s first wand, before his acquisition of the Elder wand, had a basilisk skin core.  And that’s the only record of such a wand in the past two centuries. The only other person known to have owned one is Nicholas Flamel, who I’m sure you know. Apparently its properties make it perfect for certain kinds of dark magic._

_Tell Sherlock to hang in there, I think we’ve begun to knock over the house of cards._

_-Hermione Granger_

***

“Sherlock, take a break,” John demanded.

“A break?” he exclaimed, “How can I take a break? My mother’s entire life is a lie. She might not even be dead. But why does that matter, I’m not even sure what she doing when she was alive.”

“Calm down,”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, don’t you get it? The woman I knew. My mother. Violet. Had a wand so rare the only other people known to have had one like it are _Gellert Grindelwald_ and _Nicholas Flamel_. What the hell was she doing with it?”

“Sherlock, think of it this way. She may have had some secrets. But deep down she was always the same person.”

“Was she John? You know I’ve grown up thinking my father was the manipulative. And that’s why the two of them never worked out. But it turns out I was wrong. They were perfect for each other. Professional liars. The family business.”

“It’s okay to be angry, Sherlock, I would be too,”

“You know I’ve been thinking. So I missed this, fine. I was somewhat blinded by her love for me, which is the only thing that I can now say for a fact is conclusively real. But Mycroft? Oh this good. He didn’t see it because he never thought she could be clever enough to hide a secret like this from us. That’s what he always going on about. Don’t be emotional and attached like Mother, Sherlock. Mother was weak, Sherlock. He actually thought she was like that and didn’t even think she was capable of _this_. _This_ is genius.”

“Glad to see you’re coming to terms with it,”

“Oh I’m not. I’m just acknowledging the fact that it’s brilliant. Because it is. Mycroft covered up her ‘death’. But he still believed it was a failed suicide attempt. He never knew her like I did. I never thought she would leave us like that. And I was right. She didn’t. There was a plan. There was a plan from the moment she ‘died’.”

“Sherlock we still don’t know for a fact that’s she’s still alive. We only know she’s not in that graveyard.”

“John, it’s like you said before. It’s just a gut feeling.”

***

_John-_

_She covered her tracks well. But I think I found her. There’s a paper I found that I think she wrote. Unfortunately wasn’t able to open it up and read it. Titled ‘On the Properties of the Philosopher’s Stone’_.

 _I also looked into the wand bit some more. Grindelwald’s was also allegedly around that length. Maple. I think it could be the same one._

_-Hermione_

“Sherlock, please say something, you’ve been staring at that letter for half an hour,” John sighed.

“She wrote that paper,” Sherlock said finally, “And the wand that’s been confiscated from me. That’s sitting in a desk somewhere. That wand once belonged to Gellert Grindelwand. One of the greatest dark wizards of all time.”

“At least now you know the truth,” John tried to make that sound comforting.

“No, we know what she might have been working on. We still don’t know if she succeeded. Or what went wrong.”

“You’re doing it again,”

“Doing what?”

“Going into your ‘analytical’, ‘investigative’ mode to avoid the pain. You did it after we came back from the graveyard. When you knew there was a big chance she’s still alive. You jumped right into collecting facts to investigate her. Her life. Because you didn’t want to deal with how it’s tearing you apart.”

“Well if I hadn’t. We wouldn’t be here. Though that would be infinitely preferable.”

“You’re angry at her. Just say it. And it’s hard to be angry at her.”

“I can’t reconcile it. The person I knew. And the person she allegedly was. A liar. Deeper into dark magic than even I’ve gone.”

“Maybe she did change Sherlock. Maybe she did become the loving, kind, person you knew as your mother. I mean, you went from being William to being Sherlock. That was a big change too.”

“It’s different John.  After all this time. Deep down. I’m still William. You’ve seen that. You’re the only person that has.”

“Sherlock. Maybe we should tell your father about this. He has a right to know.”

“No. We’re keeping this secret for now.”

“Sherlock, she really did love you. Her life with you. It wasn’t a lie.”

“Wasn't it? Right now John you're the only thing that seems real," he continued, "John it didn’t seem important then. It really didn’t. My mother acquired lots of scholarly papers. All the time. About a great many things. But in the days before her death she won _The Flamel Papers_ in a public auction.”

“Then her real work…”

 “Yes, John, my mother wanted to recreate the effects of the Philosopher’s Stone.”


	26. Azkaban Prison

_If he doesn’t stop interfering in this tournament, I might just have to kill him. And that’s no fun._

_-Jim_

The note burned on Mycroft’s desk the moment he had finished reading it. He knew immediately what he had to do. There wasn’t a place on Earth where his brother would be safe from this madman. No place, perhaps, save one.

***

“You can’t send him there, there hasn’t been a trial!” John snapped.

“I don’t have a choice,” Harry sighed, “Direct ministry order,”

“Mycroft,” John cursed under his breath.

“He’s not evil John,” Sherlock pointed out, “He seems to have caught wind of our snooping around. Took him a while. Must be otherwise occupied. And clearly in his opinion I’m safer in Azkaban at this point than I am here.”

“Well I don’t give a rat’s ass about his opinion, you can’t send him there, are you mad?” John said incredulously.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Harry said as he lowered the force field and stepped out of the room, “Then I have to take him.”

“I can’t believe,” John said angrily, “Your own brother would send you to Azkaban.”

“There’s a reason, there’s logic, with Mycroft there always is,” Sherlock said quietly, “But he’s not my problem right now. It’s those dementors John.”

“I’ve read, that if you concentrate on happy memories, they have less of an effect on you, kind of like the mental defense that helps you when you cast a Patronus,”

“How convenient, as I _cannot_ cast a Patronus,”

“Still stuck on the memory?”

“Something like that, I got close once though,”

“When was that?”

“Do I have to say it John?”

“Oh, Sherlock,”

“No,” Sherlock said defiantly, “Don’t pity me. I can’t stand that. Poor, pitiful, William whose mother killed herself. Whose father left them. Whose brother doesn’t care either. I’ve had enough. Quite enough.”

“I don’t pity you Sherlock, I never have,”

“Continue the investigation without me, promise me, you have to, for _her_ sake, and remember what I taught you. For the third task. You’ll be all right. Okay.” Sherlock implored.

“Okay,” John said, throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissing him deeply. Finally running his hands through that impossible hair. For someone so hard-edged and stubborn, so clever and closed off, Sherlock had such soft, warm lips John thought. For someone so outwardly cold indifferent, he really did crave affection more than anything else.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked, a bit dazed, as they broke away.

“A happy memory,”


	27. Thoughts in the Cell

It is the eternal curse of all clever children that they should not be understood. The workings of their mind, the associations built to things and places an ideas all a scramble to anyone that has never been allowed within their private little world. A curse too is the sensitivity that follows, to all stimuli from the world around, to all that exists beyond the only place of comfort—the mind. It is the curse of clever children, and even more so the curse of gifted children to be misunderstood, to be isolated and to fear that which makes them different.

And that had been Sherlock’s life. Curious enough as a child, talkative and asking questions and seeking to know real things, meaningful things about things that went on around. While other children were content to play Quidditch in the yard he had buried himself in books, a small enough difference at the time but a large one when years past and it became expected of him to make friends. Why is it hard for someone so clever to make friends? Isn’t socialization itself an algorithm? You ask what people like. You ask them about themselves. People like to talk about themselves, Sherlock noticed. But Sherlock just wasn’t good at talking. It came off as awkward and stilted. He didn’t know enough about the things that the other kids talked about all the time. About girls and boys. About Quidditch and about pointless, useless things that they all cared about so much. And oftentimes he sat down and wondered if there was anyone else out there like him? Anyone else out there that saw the world as more than a collection of objects and a maze in which to navigate and just get older and older until it was all over in the briefest flash and then nothing. But if there was, he thought, he could never get to talk to them about this. He could never get past the barrier of simple small talk to begin to explain his vision, his fantastic vision, the way in which he saw the world. It was then, right then, that he began to hate.

Hate himself. Hate the world. But mostly himself. It was a sad thing to admit to himself that he was unlikable. Unlike the other Ravenclaws at school he didn’t try harder and harder to make the grade, but instead busied himself in the dormitory with experiments that he and he alone found fascinating. He was smart enough to talk with the ‘smart’ clique, but didn’t quite fit in there either. The stupid people in contrast were too boring and redundant to tolerate. He was alone. Quite alone. And he would have reached out. But even he thought it was too petty a problem to demand actual help. Who was he to feel ungrateful? He had good food to eat, a family, still or what was left of it, a chance at an education. It was a weakness. To feel pain. He shouldn’t feel it. He shouldn’t. No. Then why did it ache in his chest? Why, oh why, did he wish that maybe someone could come chase after him in the hallway and come talk, that he could be invited to a party maybe sometimes? He didn’t really want that. He shouldn’t. But he did. Even geniuses are human.

And then there was love. He had seen it. He had seen the books in his mother’s study. Romances. He knew great songs existed of the love between two people. He saw it at school. People kissing. People holding hands. Loving each other. Asking each other out to Hogsmeade. Everyone had love. Everyone had once had a ‘thing’. Or at the very least ‘almost a thing’ with someone or other. Everyone except Sherlock. Because who could love a person like that? A person too awkward to talk. A person too meek to point out that he knew the answers to the problems on the board and every problem that would ever be on the board ever. Love was not for him, he decided. He didn’t deserve it. He was meant to be alone. To solve problems. He was put on this earth to use the power of his mind. That he had a beating heart was only to keep the blood flowing to his brain.

He had thought he would be alone forever. Or until he died. That there could never be a person who cared enough to want the vision, his vision. He wasn’t worthy. He had nothing to offer. Not beautiful. Not effortlessly charming. Just there. Moving forward. Studying. Studying. Thinking. Thinking. Just being himself. A self that had never been good enough. Not good enough for anyone to love him. Not good enough for mother to stay.

He had grown acclimatized to it now. Not having friends. Mycroft dropped in from time to time in his life. He had colleagues. To politely inquire into his affairs once in a blue moon. Yet he had always known he wasn’t the type to make funny jokes at a dinner party. Get people to laugh at what he said and want more of his company. Because it didn’t interest him. It interested him to think of things beyond the now. Beyond the mundane, right here, tomorrow night’s dinner and the elections next week, to things that would change the world.

It wasn’t true, though, that he had never tried. Before Victor even there had been someone. Someone he had liked. Someone he had believed to be like him. Different. He had followed him around, tried desperately to talk, but they too had gone away. They too did not want to take the trouble to break a kid like Sherlock open. To see.

These thoughts floated in his head in Azkaban prison as the dementor’s swooped about his cell. About being alone. Dying alone. Dying here. Alone. Alone. Alone. No on there. No one cares. You’re no fun. You’re not worthy. Who cares if you’re smart? What good does it do? What good was any of it? No one cares. They never did. Even _she_ didn’t. And she was supposed to. She was supposed to be forever. But why didn’t she? Because it’s you. Because it’s worthless, awkward, desperate William who isn’t worth it. Not worth the trouble. Deeper and deeper he fell into the spiral as the dementors passed by. Deeper and deeper until he felt the raw hurt in his chest, felt it so cold in his heart, like freezing iron piercing his chest until he couldn’t take it and just cried and cried and it didn’t help. Crying was pathetic. So pathetic. He was brilliant. Crying was weak. Pain was weak. Oh, how useless. And deeper and deeper it went until the tears too stopped and he just lay there, wanting sleep or death to take him. He just lay there, the cursed victim of the life of the gifted child. All alone to his thoughts. Like he had been all along. Thoughts that were venom. Thoughts that sapped the life out of him steadily a second at a time.

Who would care if he were just to die? Right here. Right now. End it. The torment. But no, he opened his eyes. John would care a little bit. _John_. That kiss. Not alone. Not alone. Not alone. At last. Not alone. At last. At last. At last. After all these long years. Not Alone. At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think through writing this story I've come to understand why so many people do identify with the Johnlock idea as a whole. It really is the story of an outsider who no one had ever bothered with finally being valued for who he really is, and more than valued, loved. Many people are outsiders, though probably not to as great an extent as Sherlock, who have faced years where no one appreciates their individuality because it violates the sacred norm of behavior decreed by the society. The idea that there is a 'John' out there, someone who does see what the others failed to see for so long, and is crazy about it, is something I love to think about. Because it is true. To those who have ever felt in any way 'different'. There is a John for you out there. That's the real beauty of this ship. That even the strangest, oddest of us are worthy of finding love.


	28. The Third Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is what happens when I watch movies like Inception. For like the third time. And get fascinated by the thin line between our dreams and reality.

Snowflakes landed on their noses as John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s freezing cold ones in Hogsmeade. As he pressed in closer for warmth he grasped the taller boy’s long Ravenclaw scarf.

“How did I ever manage to find you?” John asked as they resumed walking hand in hand.

“You didn’t, we ran into each other, quite by accident. If I remember correctly we got off on the wrong foot in Potions, you came in with your Quidditch things and knocked over a perfect brew of Felix Felicis, later I transfigured your owl into a snake, you were dead set on hating me but I suppose you’ve gotten over that, judging by all the snogging that’s been going on lately,” Sherlock said smugly.

“Where are we going?” John stopped in his tracks suddenly.

“Hogsmeade, for our date, of course, we have N.E.W.T. exams in about a month, good time to take a bit of a break, that’s what you said anyway,” Sherlock replied.

John looked at Sherlock quizzically, “Sherlock you’re not here.”

“Of course I’m here John,”

“No. You’re in Azkaban. You’re not a seventh year, we aren’t dating, this is some kind of illusion,”

“Say it then, John, you just have to say it,”

“This isn’t real.”

***

Sherlock was sitting in the chair across from him, wearing a suit, tapping his fingers restlessly on the side of a chair, “I need a case John.”

“You just solved one,” John sighed automatically.

“I know, I know, you know what? I’ll phone Lestrade, he probably has something for me,” Sherlock whipped out a muggle cell phone and paced about.

John looked around the room of the flat. Their flat. This was Baker Street. He recognized the wallpaper. The union jack pillow. His flatmate Sherlock Holmes. His bedroom was upstairs. He was an ex-soldier recently returned from Afghanistan. He was a muggle. Sherlock was a muggle. What was a _muggle_ again?

He found himself getting his coat and dashing after Sherlock to some crime scene at the heart of London. Watching the man rattle off deductions a mile a minute. Then sprinting behind him as they tracked a smuggler from bar to bar. Finally collapsing in an alleyway from exhaustion. Apparently even Sherlock had his limits.

“We almost have him John,” Sherlock spoke quickly, “It’s the next one, I know it. That’s where he’s making his next delivery.”

“Sherlock, what are we doing?” John asked suddenly.

“John are you really that dull? We’re solving a crime.”

“No, we don’t do that.”

“Of course we do. I solve crimes. You blog about it. I occasionally forget my pants.”

“No we don’t. We’re wizards. This isn’t our life. We should be at Hogwarts. I’m not even this old.”

“Say it then,” Sherlock smiled, “That’s it. All you have to do is say it.”

“Do I want to?” John asked, “This life. This illusion. At least I share it with you.”

“You can’t cave now, that’s the only way you’re going to beat this challenge.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re right,” Sherlock disappeared in a flash as John said it, “This isn’t real.”

***

“Oh, Sherlock,” John moaned as Sherlock rolled him over in bed, “You really are a genius. In all things.”

“Less talking. More sex,” Sherlock said as he did some truly miraculous things with his tongue and his fingers, and John was forced to oblige.

A half hour later John was still running his hands over the other man’s naked skin, kissing his neck, the sheets of the bed hot and damp with sweat. When suddenly he stopped.

“What are we doing?” John asked.

“I really did not think you needed clarification on that particular point,”

“No, we don’t do this. We never have. We’re not lovers.”

“The last thirty seven minutes beg to differ.”

“This isn’t really us.”

Sherlock extricated himself from John’s embrace, put his hands behind his head and leaned back on the other side of the bed, stretching himself out and giving John a rather unfortunately good view of his form, “Then say it. You just have to say it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“This isn’t the real us, John. You know it. Deep down.”

“This isn’t real,” bed, sheets and Sherlock were gone.

***

It was a bright summer’s day. A girl with soft blonde hair chased butterflies in the garden as John watched her from the window. Inside he watched as Sherlock was rocking a dark haired boy to sleep. Light streamed in from the windows. Illuminating the boys dark curls and how they perfectly mimicked those of their father.

“I never thought we would have this,” John said to his husband.

“Neither did I, I’m calling Charlotte in for dinner in a few minutes, don’t want her out there getting bitten by mosquitoes”

“You like this. Caring about her so much. And with Nathan. It’s unreal.”

“I know I don’t say it often John, but I love you. And our kids. Every day with them is as much of a thrill as the work ever is.”

John looked out at the girl running around outside. At the baby in Sherlock’s arms. This house they had built together. The memories he somehow had of a wedding. Of him and Sherlock. Living together on the English countryside.

“Give me one good reason. One good reason Sherlock why I should let this one go. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You’re afraid aren’t you. That if you say it and leave here the real Sherlock won’t ever be with you the way I am,” Sherlock nodded knowingly.

“What are you my subconscious?”

“In a way yes, that’s what they’re manipulating to create these alternate realities, getting progressively harder and harder to break out of,”

“How long was I in this one?”

“Few hours at least,”

“I am afraid. Sherlock. The real you. Would never settle for a domestic, boring life with me.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock laughed, “Who ever said life with you is boring? You’re braver than that.”

John kissed his son on the forehead, “I’m sorry. This isn’t real.”

***

Sherlock was old, really old. Dark black hair turned snow white. Chiseled face now wrinkled. Having foregone the suits of his youth for the odd-looking uniform of a bee-keeper.

He came in from outside, smelling like honey, “It’s been a long summer John,”

“That it has,” John needed a cane again, he slowly made his way to the table by the window and pulled out the creaky chair.

“How long have you known John?” Sherlock asked warily, as they watched the setting sun and the darkening of the world outside.

“About mid-day, but I can’t. Not this time. We grew old together, Sherlock.”

“If you say it. We still can.”

“Why would you? Wouldn’t I hold you back?”

“No one has ever cared for me as you have John, and this, this fantasy isn’t nearly as beautiful or complete as the reality waiting for you. It’s just a dream.”

“But it was a good dream.”

“You have to wake up John, he needs you.”

John felt a tear streak down his cheek, “I wish it was. But this isn’t real.”

***

“Ingenious,” Mycroft observed the three champions in stasis, “Layers of alternate reality, the one who breaks out in time wins,”

He watched the clock. It had been three days. Still no movements. Yet he had played his own little part. The others would face 7 separate realities. John would only handle 5. Surely it would be enough.

John woke up in a void. Was this the last layer? Where was everyone? He was surrounded by black. Hadn’t he woken up?

He thrust his arms forward and felt the cold brush of metal. He grasped with his fingers until he found himself clutching a small metal cube. A chill ran down his spine at its touch and he felt his entire body radiating with its power.

Then the void melted away, he opened his eyes. Mycroft stood by the side of the bed, smiling.

“Congratulations,” the senior undersecretary said as he grabbed the box from John’s tight grip and walked away, his cloak billowing behind him, “Triwizard champion.”


	29. Waking Up Violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since she's kind of had her shadow on this entire story from the onset I thought it was about time the great Violet Sherrinford Holmes actually made an appearance in person. Though this chapter is mostly about Mycroft, his relationship with Sherlock, and his ultimate decision to bring her back.

_Twenty-two years earlier_

Mycroft knew exactly how it happened. How his little brother had been conceived, the exact biological process by which he had gone from a single cell to a fetus to this annoying, crying thing his mother had thrust into his arms. It was quite a lot to know at the tender age of seven. But it was his way, it always had been, to see and to know everything.

He had taken out some photographs of himself at this age for comparison. He lacked this creature’s curly mop of hair. He was told that he was far quieter as a baby. And he believed it. Both mother and father were awake at various times of night trying to calm it down. But Mycroft, despite the egregious breaks to his regular sleeping pattern when the lights were turned on and songs sung to pacify it, could not bring him himself to think of his little brother as the nuisance that he was.

“William Sherlock Scott, quite a name,” he had remarked upon seeing the hospital certificate.

“It had to equal the caliber of Edward David Mycroft,” his mother cooed at the baby.

“Ah, of course,” Mycroft nodded, considering him, “Seven pounds, four ounces?”

“Three, it’s all the swaddling clothes on him now,” Violet rocked him in her arms, “You’ll take care of him, won’t you Mikey?”

He considered the question far more seriously than most children his age, then replied quite solemnly, “As long as I am able.”

_Nineteen years earlier_

Mycroft didn’t resent William for being mother’s favorite. He only knew it to be true. As a child he himself had stopped needing her so quickly, so easily, that it must have felt wonderful to have a son who did. That’s how he explained it to himself. Or, he thought, perhaps mother had no favorites, and if he were to just to approach her more often he would receive the same affection she had in her eyes for Willy. Either way, such thinking was of little use. She did love him as much as a woman can reasonably be expected to love a child so cold and distant. He really didn’t want any more. And did not intend to ask for it.

He often thought it curious how attached other children were to their parents. To their opinions. To their ways of life. He had put a great deal of time into analyzing how his own parents lived and conducted themselves, taken the most equitable bits, and left it at that. No sense in being sentimental about it. Mycroft did not consider himself as attached to them as he should be. Or as attached as he suspected William would be when he was old enough to understand. That was just how he was.

With his brother, however, it was different. But he could not explain how. It was the feeling that made him dash outside when he saw William putting dirt in his mouth and coaxing him to spit it out. It was the religiousness with which he sat the toddler down every day and read him the _Encyclopedia Brittanica_. He had refused to let his parents pollute the kid with rhyming books and cartoons. It was the fact that he had forgiven him for having an accident on his chemistry set. It was the strange feeling he got when the kid had started to walk and had come shakily towards him. The oddest sensation of contentment on the rare day they did watch television and the chubby, babbling kid had gotten quieter and quieter until he finally dozed off in his lap.

Mycroft knew right then and there. At the age of ten. That there would be no more meaningful relationship in his entire life than this. He would never love any other person to the extent that he loved William.

_Twelve years earlier_

“She’s dead, Sherlock,” Mycroft said after the funeral, “If crying would bring her back. Then logically, I would be doing it too.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Sherlock sniffed, “You don’t care that’s she’s gone. You didn’t love her. You don’t love anything.”

“An inaccurate assessment, it affects me profoundly that she’s gone,” Mycroft’s tone was even, “Now don’t get into hysterics.”

“Why’d she leave us?” Sherlock said quietly as he searched his brother’s serene expression for answers, “Did she tell you?”

“No, she told me nothing,” Mycroft replied simply.

“Didn’t she love us?”

“From what I have seen. I believe that she did.”

“Why don’t you care? Don’t you miss her? Would you be like this if _I_ had died? Just standing there as if nothing’s happened,” Sherlock demanded, his face a strange cross between exhaustion, sadness and anger.

“Loving something to the point where the lack of it affects your ability to function is the very definition of weakness. It is why mother is not with us today.”

“You didn’t answer the question,”

“I have not considered that possibility, the chance of it occurring is so slim,”

“What do you mean?”

“If anything had managed to happen to you there’s a fairly great chance that I am already dead. Being dead, I cannot shed tears at your funeral.”

“But just say you were,”

“Your death would compromise my ability to function, yes,” Mycroft took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his brother, “Now dry your eyes. You don’t want people’s pity.”

How weak he was, Mycroft thought to himself. His attachment to mother had done this. Nearly broken him when he found out she was gone. Some part of him wanted to comfort him. Mother would have hugged him or something ridiculously sentimental like that. But Mycroft wouldn’t. Sherlock could not replace his attachment to mother with an attachment to Mycroft. It would not be good for him.

He had lied to Sherlock. Even now his heart was beating far faster than normal. It had not been altogether easy to pull off the cover up while he was still in somewhat of state of shock at what she had done. He was somewhat compromised about mother. He too had been a bit attached to her, despite his best efforts not to be. But he had promised her. He would take care of him. As long as he was able. And that’s what he intended to do.

_Five years earlier_

“Why the hell are you here?” Sherlock hissed.

“Just checking in on the school, reporting back to the minister,” Mycroft had sat down quietly at the Ravenclaw table as they watched the sorting,

“Oh please,” Sherlock retorted as a Mary Morstan was sorted into Gryffindor, “It’s my sixth year. You’ve gotten word on what I’ve been doing. You’re here to tell me off. Well guess what. I don’t take orders from you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. I’m not here to tell you off. Just don’t get caught, the embarrassment you would incur on me would be taxing. I was actually here to see if you could keep tabs on certain people for me. Don’t ask why. Ministry affair.”

“Isn’t it always,” Sherlock scoffed, “Why do you always come to me for your spy work?”

“It’s honestly a lot less trouble than the imperious curse,”

“You’ve _imperiused_ people. At the school,” Sherlock whispered incredulously.

“Oh look a hat stall,” Mycroft changed the subject, pointing to a short, blonde boy sitting on the stool at the front of the great hall. The hat had been on his head for a good five minutes.

“I don’t particularly care,”

“Even if he’s a Ravenclaw? Surprising lack of house camaraderie on your part,”

“You know I barely associate with people in my own year, let alone a first year, I’ll have nothing to do with this boy,”

“Well that’s a shame,” Mycroft said as the hat shouted Gryffindor at last.

“It’s a win for them I’d say, he’s got a seeker’s build, they haven’t had a top notch squad in years.”

“I think his name was John Watson,” Mycroft remarked, “This year’s last.”

“I honestly don’t really care what his name is or what he does. You were saying something about people I should keep tabs on.”

“I was. Will you do it?”

“No. I have far too much planned this year to help you stage your annual puppet show.”

“Sherlock don’t be a child,”

“I’ll do what I want. Just don’t try and stop me.”

_Three years earlier_

“I don’t know how you found me. But I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Sherlock demanded, pointing his wand at him threateningly.

“I don’t particularly wish to duel you,” Mycroft still had his stowed away, “Just to implore you to see reason.”

“You’ve never cared before. Why start now? What if it does kill me? You’re unburdened at last.”

“I could do without the publicity,” Mycroft said rather coldly.

“Been seeing a lot of father lately have you?”

“We’ve publically reconciled. It’s been years. Grow up. You can’t blame him for your life forever.”

“Actually I can.”

“You can’t kill a chimaera, Sherlock.”

“Watch me.”

“Tell me” Mycroft paced about the room, “Is there something you’re trying to prove?”

“I’ve done that already, I’ve done things with magic people only dream about, no, this is different. I’m bored. I need this.”

“What you need, brother mine, is a modicum of self-control. And a restraint on your compulsion to be an adrenaline junkie.”

“Fat lot of good that did you, pun intended,”

“This is not about me.”

“Isn’t it? You just want to make sure I won’t make a big scene. Fine. I won’t. Happy?”

“No. Your loss would break my heart.”

“What am I supposed to say to that?” Sherlock laughed, “I don’t even believe it. You’re trying to manipulate me into not doing this. It’s not going to work.”

“Please, Sherlock, I promised her,”

“Oh that’s clever, that is, bringing up a promise to our dead mother,” Sherlock snapped, “How old do you think I am? Ten?”

“I will admit that is still how I see you,”

“Well then I suggest you get a better perspective,” Sherlock said as his wordless incantation blew up part of the wall, barely missing Mycroft as he disapparated.

_Present day_

Mycroft worried about him. Constantly. Azkaban had been the best place to send him. The only place he was sure was safe from Moriarty. Yet he knew the havoc it would wreak on Sherlock’s emotions. And he felt guilt. Real guilt he hadn’t felt in years.

He held the cube in his left hand and stroked his mother’s dark curls with his right. Observing her still, frozen expression.  He would only have to press it to her forehead. It’s magic would act from there. It was simple. So what was holding him back? Something was wrong here. But he couldn’t quite tell what. She had the answers, he knew she did. She had to wake up.

So he laid the metal cube on her forehead. And he waited.

***

It was like waking up from a deep sleep. A peaceful sleep. As if no time had passed. Violet stirred before she opened her eyes, and both knew and did not know the man at her side.

The last time she had seen her eldest son he had been a mere boy of seventeen. Taking on more responsibility than she had thought was warranted. Coming to seek her blessing before securing his new position at the ministry. So young. So much potential. He had been cold and distant as ever. But she saw the looks in his eyes. When he didn’t think anyone was watching. She had hidden it from him somewhat. The extent of her intellect. How much she truly saw. But she had seen how much he cared for Sherlock. And how desperately he tried not to show it. She had known that boy. Her boy. Withdrawn and serious as he was.

She did not know this man. Who he had become in her absence. And it pained her beyond words. Beyond reason. And suddenly she felt sick.

Violet could only look at him for what felt like an eternity before speaking, “Where’s Sherlock? How long has it been?”

Mycroft, who hadn’t heard his own mother’s voice in twelve years, took longer to respond than he normally would have, “Azkaban. Twelve years. Not that long in the scheme of things.”

But Violet only buried her face in her hands, and stayed like that for a few minutes before speaking again, her eyes stained with tears, “Take me to him. I need to explain. All these years. Oh, what have I done? What I have done? What happened to him, Mikey, my little Sherlock, my baby?”

“He grew up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that's she's finally awake. Things can really start to get exciting...


	30. Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really an actual chapter. Just a link to my blog where I've put some pictures of my personal headcanons/how I imagine the different characters in this story. Sorry, I just thought it might be fun to show you.

[Personal Headcanons for Characters in the Story (Please Click)](http://teenagecalculusqueen.tumblr.com/post/109135469294/some-headcanons-for-teenlock-audrey-tautou-as)

 

 **Audrey Tautou** as VIOLET HOLMES

 **Thomas Brodie-Sangster** as JOHN WATSON

 **Asa Butterfield** as KID SHERLOCK

 **Tom Hiddleston** as SIGER HOLMES

 **Aaron Johnson** as MYCROFT HOLMES

 

 For mid-twenties Sherlock I think there honestly is no better version than Sherlock from the BBC's unaired pilot. 


	31. The Killing Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loves Sherlock more than he loves himself.

“I need you to help me break into Azkaban,” John looked at Hermione’s horror stricken face.

“John you know I can’t—“

“Please, it’s important, Mycroft left with the cube and I don’t know what he’s going to do with it, but we’re going to need Sherlock,”

“Cube, what cube?” she asked.

“I found it,” John said, “I thought it was part of the third task,”

A look of understanding dawned on Hermione’s face, “That’s what he was after all along, the tournament’s a cover up, of course, how could I not see this!”

“Relax ‘Mione, it’s Mycroft, he’s just about as clever as you,” Ron patted her on the back.

“I can get you there,” Harry said suddenly.

“You can?”

“Yeah, though I don’t want us being tracked, um. Thestrals sound alright with you?”

John nodded, “When do we leave?”

“Now,”

***

Sherlock wasn’t really sure nowadays whether he was asleep or awake. He was fairly exhausted all the time. Both mentally and physically. And his vision was something of a blur, either that or the fog and the constant passing of dementors had sort of blended into a murky, consistent image that replayed even in his dreams. Nightmares to be more accurate.

In the beginning he had nursed a ridiculous fantasy that John would rescue him. Nonsensical of course. No one but the highest ministry officials even knew exactly how to get to Azkaban. It would have to be Mycroft who would get him out eventually. God Mycroft. He was going to kill him.

Not that much natural light filtered through into his cell. And Sherlock had long since given up measuring time. He was reasonably sure it was almost time for him to sleep. Or maybe he was already asleep and dreaming of the hell that Azkaban. No, he thought. This was surely a dream. One of the rare good ones, as he seemed to hear raised voices down the corridor. Footsteps. There were no footsteps here in his waking hours. Dementors did not touch the ground.

“Over here Ron,” a man’s voice, somewhat familiar, in better shape he could have deduced exactly who, and their precise distance from his current location based on the reverberations of the sound, at the current moment he only narrowed down middle-aged male.

“John you better come, he doesn’t look so good,” a woman’s voice, concerned, also familiar.

“Sherlock,” a friendly voice, oh he knew this voice, this was a dream.

The cell he had lain in for the past few days was dark and damp. But as Sherlock caught his first glimpse of John the atmosphere of the dream seemed to lighten. As if his coming had brought in more of the sun’s rays. The heaviness he had felt, the depth of the depression pushed on him by the constant presence of the dementors seemed to lighten.

Dream-John was rattling the bars of the cell. The bushy-haired woman—Hermione—was trying various keys on the locks keeping Sherlock in. When finally one fit dream-John threw the door open with a bang, and was suddenly by Sherlock’s side. The dementors were a distant memory now. And the room was bright. The light not of the sun. But of John himself.

John’s warm hands were caressing his cheek, “We’re getting you out Sherlock, it’s over now,”

But Sherlock could not reply. He did not want to speak and end the dream. Ending it would take John away. And without John, at this low, low point at which he had arrived, surely he would not endure much longer.

“Say something,” John attempted to laugh, “I broke into Azkaban for you, you git,”

“This is just a dream,” Sherlock whispered so softly that only John could hear it.

“No,” John kissed him quickly and grasped his cold hands, “This is real,”

***

“So sorry to interrupt the cozy catch up,” Jim sang from the doorway as Mycroft whipped out his wand and pointed it at the intruder.

“It would not be wise to continue,” Mycroft said evenly.

“Really? Are we doing threats now? Threats are fun, okay,” Jim gestured toward the cube, “Let’s see. Since I know how much of your power you sapped in order to use that cube to wake up mummy, I’m going to threaten to _kill_ you unless you give her up,”

“Don’t touch him,” Violet waved her arm to the right and smashed him up against the wall.

Moriarty seemed unperturbed, and only smiled manically at Mycroft, “That’s right _Mikey_ , mummy’s more powerful than you are and she’s wandless.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow you into smithereens,” Violet said coldly.

“I have Sherlock,” Jim said simply.

Mycroft’s eyes widened as the missing pieces clicked into place, “Mother. You never tried to take your own life. You tried to elongate it.”

“Indefinitely,” Jim added cheerily.

“What do you want with me?” Violet could not meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“I know how most of it works already, if you would just fill in some gaps, then we could part ways, unlikely friends,” Jim offered.

“You cannot give a man like that knowledge of that significance, no matter what is at stake,” Mycroft said, looking pointedly at Violet.

“Keep quiet. The adults are talking,” Jim sighed in mock frustration.

“If I tell you,” Violet said, “Will you let them go? Both of them. My sons.”

“Mmmmm, I could always let them both go. But that wouldn’t be fun now would it. And besides, you know as well as I do why your incantation didn’t work when you cast it on yourself. It needs the life force of a victim. But you didn’t want to kill. Thought you could manage without it. Such a shame. Plus you were wrong and fell into a coma of greater permanence than you were expecting. I can’t have that. Bad form. Very bad form.”

“Take me as the victim, I’ve been dead to them long enough anyway, just don’t hurt them,” she said desperately.

“No I need you to monitor the incantation. I could have used Mycroft for that but he’s just about spent for the day. Though. I suppose I could meet you half way. Sherlock should be on his way over soon anyway. That trail I left for them at Hogwarts leads straight here. He should be out of Azkaban by now. Tell you what. When he gets here. You can pick,” Jim offered.

“I cannot make such a choice,” Violet stuttered.

“Oh don’t be boring. It’s obvious. Save one or lose both. I’m being quite generous here and am running out of patience,” Jim tapped his fingers on the metal of the hospital bed.

“It would not pain me if you were to choose Sherlock, mother,” this time it was Mycroft who could not meet her eye, “It would be the _logical_ decision.”

“We have to find a way for those three to get through,” John said as he burst in through the secret room with Sherlock and stopped in shock at the sight of Violet, Mycroft and Moriarty.

“The only ones who can pass through are you, me, and anyone with the surname Holmes. So don’t strain yourself,” Moriarty responded as he observed Sherlock with glee, “This is a turn up isn’t it?”

But Sherlock had not even noticed Moriarty in the room. He was frozen by the sight of Violet. His mother. Alive. After all this time. He could not think of what to do. So he only looked at her in a daze. It was she who ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she cried as she clutched him to her, “I love you, I never should have left, Sherlock, my son,”

There was a part of him that wanted to grab her and shake her. Another part that wanted to push her away and demand an answer. Another that wanted to reject her entirely, ignore her and tell her she had no place in his life. But some part of him had wanted this for so long. He was ten years old again and just woken up from a nightmare and she was holding him and telling him it would be alright. She was here now. She would chase the monsters away. He could not let her go.

“Is this your choice? We don’t have _forever_ ,” Jim laughed at his own joke.

“I cannot choose between them,” she insisted as she kissed Sherlock’s face, “There must be another way,”

“As charming as all the _love_ in this room truly is,” James flicked his hand and pushed Sherlock and Violet apart, “We really must be getting a move on. And thankfully, there is another way.”

Violet looked at him quizzically, “What’s that?”

But when Moriarty responded he looked not at her, but at Sherlock, “You can supervise the incantation. And I’ll either use Mummy dearest or your precious John to fuel it.”

John had never made a decision so quickly in his life. From the moment he met Sherlock there had been a hole in the man’s life. A wound that had never healed. And when this dark-haired woman had hugged him so close he had seen a happiness, a relief, in his friend’s eyes that he wished could be there all the time. Sherlock had lost his mother once. He could not lose her again. Not on John’s account. John had not thought, at such a young age, that he knew what love was. But now he thought he did.

Love was all the hours Sherlock spent teaching him charm after charm. Love was the potion Sherlock made for him the night before the first task. Love was Sherlock telling him that he could not cast a Patronus. Letting him in on his deepest, darkest secrets and fears and knowing that John would not judge him. Love was dancing. Love was the reason John had been able to break out of those dreams. Love was the feeling that had coursed through their hands in that graveyard. Love was the patronus Sherlock had cast as they were leaving Azkaban, in the form of a dog, Redbeard, and by the look in his eyes John had known the memory was of them. But love was also sacrifice.

He knew he loved Sherlock Holmes because Sherlock’s life, Sherlock’s chance at happiness was now more important than John’s. It had been for a while.

So when he saw Sherlock cast a wandless curse at Jim and saw Jim’s countercurse, a stream of green light pulsing towards the center of Sherlock’s chest, he saw his chance. Violet was too far away now to take the killing curse for him, as Lily Potter once had for her son. But John was right by his side.

John stepped in front of Sherlock in a clean motion, and briefly marveled at the fact that he felt no pain, before he fell to the ground, saw the blue of Sherlock’s eyes a final time, and let his world go black.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for this chapter. On the bright side, it will only get better from here.


	32. The Frailty of Genius

_Twenty three years earlier_

“It is the frailty of genius that it cannot recognize when its creation is eating away at its very core,” Violet said quietly, almost to herself.

“The work’s becoming too much, I can see it,” Siger sighed, “Take a break will you,”

“It is too late to put out this flame,” she wrung her hands in desperation, “But there’s too many variables! I keep running into dead ends. Look at these curse diagrams. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong again. So close but wrong.”

“Maybe you just need the right inspiration,”

“If only it were so easy. It’s digging into me, Siger. I’m losing myself.”

He laid his own hand cautiously over her, “I’m right here. I’ll take care of it.”

“But how can you?  How can anyone? I’ve gone deeper into the old rules and the dark ways than even Flamel. The elixir is an impermanent solution.”

“You know how to make the elixir?”

“I’ve known for years, but the material is impossible to acquire. The process devilishly tricky to get right. An incantation. I need an incantation.”

“Violet why do you do this to yourself? Why can’t we just live in the now? Why are we driving ourselves mad chasing forever?”

“Why does anyone do anything? Why do you love me, Siger?” she shot back.

“I-I-It’s not that simple, it’s a feeling,”

“This is feeling too. All my life. Towards one problem. Oh sure there were others. Other problems in the Department of Mysteries. But they were boring. This. _This._ This is the challenge. This is destiny.”

“You’re right Violet, it is the inherent frailty of genius that’s done this. But I shouldn’t complain. This is what I brought upon myself, loving you.”

“Oh shut up,” she snapped, “You know you would never have been happy with a nice normal woman anyway. You need me.”

“Do I? Why do I need you?” he retorted, his voice rising.

She stood up and looked him in the eye, “I am intoxicating and you know it.”

“You are not. You’re  manipulative and obsessive, albeit brilliant,” he said defiantly.

“Oh Violet marry me, Violet I love you,” she sang mockingly, “Come on. I feel it too. Our magic. Every minute. Every second with you, _Mr. Holmes_.”

“Miss Sherrinford you have no idea what you’re starting,” he darted after her and she ran away.

For a few minutes they chased each other through the house. Through room after room of the residence. Looping through Mycroft’s bedroom where the boy, aged six, sat studying the periodic table. Then up in the attic. Briefly out on the grounds. Then back inside and then up to the bedroom where they both collapsed panting on the bed.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” Violet breathed heavily.

“And you’re trying to curse yourself into living forever,” he laughed.

Then soon they were both laughing. The seriousness of the evening forgotten.

“I feel better,” she said after a while, turning on her side to face him, “I think I see it now.”

“See what?”

“The light at the end of the tunnel,”

“A light amidst the darkness. We’ll find it Violet. We’ll find it together.”

Years afterward Violet would remember that night as the most probable one during which Sherlock was conceived. But Siger would remember it as one of the last times he had felt as if he truly knew the woman he had married. Time and time again when he saw the devastating effect the work had on her. Whenever he felt frustrated with her. He would remember it. How madly in love he had been with that woman that night. That frail, frail genius with the dark hair. His own personal piece of the impossible. Violet.

_Present day_

Siger knew his son would never confide in him. Sherlock had gone to Azkaban without discussing it with his father. The possibility that existed that Violet was still alive. Still, despite the fact that everyone in the family was a genius, Siger too had some tricks up his sleeve, and he was equally capable of following the trail to St. Mungo’s. And breaking into the room in which he knew his son and John Watson had gone. Where he was reasonably sure he would find Violet. In retrospect it was so like Mycroft to do something like this. Given how well he actually knew both his sons, as they were annoyingly like Violet in this way, he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before.

“Oh good daddy’s here, proper little family reunion, so sorry John isn’t around to see this,” Jim said nonchalantly from the corner.

Siger eyed his son crouching on the ground next to the body of the boy he knew to be John. Sherlock looked broken, frozen still in shock, the light gone from his eyes. Siger understood immediately what had happened.  

“Violet my love,” he nodded to his ex-wife, “Long time no see,”

Then he faced Moriarty and brought out his wand, “Any last words? You villain types do love those. Though keep it brief.”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows in surprise, but replied quickly, “ _Avada Kedavra_ ”

Siger smiled and whispered the spell under his breath, “ _Divisi”_

It was a little trick he had picked up in Durmstrang. From the late Lord Moran. The only way to ensure a draw in a duel. To deal as much as damage to one’s opponent as one was forced to take. It was rarely ever used. One had to be willing to sacrifice everything for the enemy’s defeat. Thankfully, Siger was. After all these years he was finally done. An innocent boy lay dead. This quest for eternity had to end here. His children would have to learn the hard way that there was no such thing as forever.  

The green light broke into two pieces halfway and one half turned back to hit Moriarty while the other hit Siger square in the chest.

Only half the killing curse had hit him. So  he guessed he had a minute or two left. Yet the weakness set in immediately and his knees buckled. Violet caught Siger, though when Moriarty fell none dashed to his side.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “This cube can undo any curse. It has just enough. I’ve calculated. To save one of them.”

“Come here Mycroft, Sherlock,” Siger said, his voice hoarse, his head resting on Violet’s knees.

Sherlock got up from where he had been kneeling next to John and dashed to his father’s side.

“After I’m gone I want you to use the cube to save the boy,” he said solemnly, “I’m an old man now. He had his entire life ahead of him.”

“Father you don’t have to do this for me,” Sherlock said softly.

“I do have to do this, Willy. John makes you happy. I want you to be happy. Can you do that?”

Sherlock nodded and grabbed hold of his hand.

“Mycroft, try to remember it too. Somewhere deep in that analytical mind of yours. And if you could. As it really is your last chance. Both of you. Forgive me. For all of it,”

“Water under the bridge,” Mycroft knelt down and looked him in the eyes.

“Violet you haven’t aged a day,” Siger smiled as he reached up and tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

“I never should have done this to you,” she said as the tears ran down her cheeks, “If I hadn’t wanted forever then I could have had forever with you. But I was stupid. I was so, so stupid. I shouldn’t have wanted this. I should have been different.”

“But then you wouldn’t have been you Violet. The intoxicating Violet I loved. Besides. Stupidity is after all, the frailty of genius.”

He laughed a final time. Then seeing the curse had taken its full effect, Violet closed his eyes.

“What did he mean mother? About the frailty of genius?” Mycroft asked.

Her tone was bitter, as if she had been slapped in the face, “Love is the light in the darkness. The only thing that can last forever. It was him all along that found the secret to eternity. Not me. The frailty, Mikey, was my inability to see it. My decision to walk alone in the shadows. To extinguish the real, true flame of my immortality. To exchange a life with love for an accursed, empty life everlasting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are still like 2-3 chapters left to conclude the story. Tie up loose ends and the like. I've really enjoyed writing this. Thanks to everyone who's actually read it and enjoyed it. Reading and writing fanfiction is very much an outlet of sorts for many emotions and complex thoughts. Including for me personally, the thoughts I've had about immortality and the quest that people have to have a legacy, not appreciating the present, etc. Thoughts that really can't come out in regular conversation or day-to-day life. I always marvel at the fact that I can read about these two idiots falling in love in literally a million different contexts and never get bored. I hope you liked my take.


	33. Amortentia

Sherlock understood why Mycroft had lied to him. It was dear sweet agony waiting at the bedside of someone in between life and death. Someone one cared for very much. He hadn’t left John’s side in two days. He would have inevitably done the same for mother had he known. Mycroft had wanted him to get on with his life.

Yet despite it all being over in a manner of speaking. Moriarty gone. Mother brought back. He was scared. Scared at the freak chance the cube wouldn’t work. That John would never again wake up.

He had lied to John the night of the Yule Ball. It wasn’t entirely for the Triwizard committee. That was only what he told the rational side of his mind. It was strategy. Just a strategy. But Sherlock’s mind had been going haywire after seeing John’s lithe, seeker’s build in those dark black dress robes. His perfectly tousled blonde hair. He had wanted to kiss John. Really, really wanted.

Afterwards he had sort of regretted it. Why even take a drink once and be thirsty for the rest of one’s life? John would never kiss him again, he had thought. Why would he? People never got close enough to Sherlock to want to kiss him. If by chance someone did they were probably too repulsed by the person Sherlock truly was to want to. But John, as he always did, had surprised him. Right before he descended into the darkness of Azkaban John had taken him into the sun’s corona. Sherlock got dizzy even remembering it. The heat. John’s heat.

After John had died everything had gone cold. Sherlock had been frozen in disbelief. John had taken the killing curse for him. John had _died_ for _him._ But what did it mean? His father had died for them because he loved them. That led him to only one conclusion based on all the available facts. John loved him. _John loved him_.

As if in response to this startling conclusion, John opened his eyes, “Sherlock?”

“Took you long enough,”

“I have a lot of questions,” John sat up slowly.

“There’ll be time to explain,” Sherlock couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

“How long was I…you know…?” John rubbed his eyes groggily.

“An eternity enclosed within fourteen minutes and twenty six seconds, then two days in a coma,” Sherlock said quietly.

“You brought me back, I knew you would,” John smiled weakly.

“That level of confidence in my abilities is entirely unwarranted,” Sherlock laughed.

“You can do anything you set your mind to. I didn’t get a chance to tell you as we were leaving Azkaban. It was a spectacular Patronus.”

“It was a spectacular memory,” Sherlock said quickly.

“I guess now that this is over you won’t be teaching here anymore,”

“That’s right. I wasn’t the best teacher anyway.”

“You were the best,”

“I thought I might go back to consulting,” Sherlock admitted, “Experimentalism. Taking cases.”

There was a pause, “When do you leave?”

“As soon as term ends, I might teach the rest of the N.E.W.T. classes for a bit,”

“I see,” John said.

“I don’t suppose. Well I can understand if you wouldn’t want to—“ Sherlock stammered.

“It’s me Sherlock. You can tell me anything. You know that,” John reached out cautiously and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s.

This was it, Sherlock thought. This was his chance. His chance to be happy. 

“Will you come with me to Baker Street?” Sherlock asked, as seriously as if he was proposing marriage.

“Of course I will,”

***

It was a strange feeling for John, going back to class. Everyone wanted to know everything of course. How he had become Triwizard champion. How he had almost died at the hands of the deranged Durmstrang champion. How he had broken into Azkaban to save his friend (or more than friend?—people talked) Professor Sherlock Holmes. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell them the reality of it all. It had meant too much to simply devolve into a common room story or simply another triumph for Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain.

He had tons of homework to catch up on. But most of his teachers were being fairly lenient. Herbology in the morning had gone well enough. With everything Sherlock had taught him Defense Against the Dark Arts was now a breeze. If anything he was only the slightest bit apprehensive about Potions.

Sherlock was pacing between the tables, much as he had been that first day with the Scalding Solution fiasco. In the front of the room he had brewed five potions himself.

The professor gestured grandly towards the cauldrons, “Your final exam. I’ll pass you if you manage to name at least three of these obscure brews. Though that will be quite a challenge for most I’d imagine.”

He had barely made eye contact with John, and he only brushed past him as he asked the students to line up outside in alphabetical order so they could come in one by one and tell him what they thought the five were.

Andrew Wallins looked petrified as he darted back out, the last of the students save John to face Sherlock’s challenge, “I couldn’t even get one. Good luck, mate.”

“Mr. Watson,” Sherlock made quick notes on his pad as John came in, still not looking at him, “One hopes a student of your caliber will be able to get at least one correct.”

John eyed the first emerald green potion, wafting the steam rising from it with his hand, “One would hope, Professor Holmes. This is Scolman’s Draught. Induces instantaneous insanity.”

Sherlock smiled, “And the next.”

John looked at the red potion and immediately shook his head, “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“No matter,” Sherlock made some marks on his paper, “The third.”

This one kept changing color from pale violet to deep blue and then back again, “The Erinaceous Potion. Transforms the drinker into a hedgehog.”

“The fourth?”

John shook his head again at the cauldron, “No idea.”

Sherlock scribbled away on the writing pad and then looked up to meet John’s eyes for the first time that day, “The fifth?”

John wasn’t entirely sure at first. Mother of pearl sheen. Smoke rising in spirals. And the smell. God what a beautiful smell.

“Well?” Sherlock asked again, “Maybe it would help you to verbalize your train of thought.”

John blushed, “It’s the strangest thing. It smells like your hair. That scent you were wearing the night of the Yule Ball. I can’t name it though. I can’t.”

Sherlock put down his pen and paper on his desk, “Would it be entirely unfair if I were to give you a hint? You’ve been through a lot lately. It’s only fair.”

“You can’t say anything. It wouldn’t be fair. Make a gesture or—“

John was interrupted as Sherlock reached across the table, his hands running dangerously close to the steam rising from the potion underneath as he grabbed John, and kissed him on the mouth. For the first time, they met as equals. Neither one in serious pain, or under threat of being sent to Azkaban, or necessitating a good show for the Triwizard committee. It was far gentler than those kisses had been. Far more relaxed now that they both knew how the other felt, that they could be together, that it would be okay. John wasn’t sure what kind of hint this was, but after about fifteen seconds, it finally clicked into place.

When he backed away he turned around briefly, massaging his temples, then faced Sherlock again, “This is Amortentia. _Amor_ is latin for love. _Tentia_ is latin for held. Henry Dagworth-Granger the potioneer once said—he said that skilled potioneers can’t produce actual love but it’s an extremely potent infatuation. It-It smells like the thing you’re most attracted to. It’s the most powerful love potion in the world.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “As incredibly arousing as I found that display of intelligence on your part. I have to ask…You got all that from a snog?”

“You’re an excellent kisser. But that was hardly a snog.”

“I have my office hours now. What say you stay and teach me the difference? But then of course, you really shouldn’t be late for Divination…”

“I think I’d be discovering my future a lot more effectively down in your office than in tea leaves to be perfectly honest.”

“I suppose, then. As a purely _academic_ exercise.”

“And if people talk…what shall we tell them?” John leaned in closer.

"Tell them we're in love."

"And why are we in love? If they want to know."

“Because you taught me how to cast a Patronus.” Sherlock closed the distance, and kissed him again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end just yet. But getting there.


	34. The Graveyard Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet reconciles with both her sons. The funeral of Siger Holmes.

“You will live forever then,” Mycroft said plainly to Violet.

“Until I so choose to die,” Violet said sadly, “Yet living isn’t really _living._ That I still must seek. And I had a proposition for you,”

“I will hear it out,”

“Travel with me,”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Mycroft asked slowly.

“Because in a world of goldfish we alone are equals. Because I don’t know the man my son has become. Because you tire of going through the motions here. And we both need a change.”

“You would leave Sherlock?” Mycroft said, surprised.

“Not permanently leaving. Not this time, just a holiday of sorts,” she explained, “You never asked for it. You could have asked for it if you needed it.”

“Your undivided attention? I didn’t need it. Attachment is weakness.”

“And now?”

“My ministry clearance opens a lot of options. Where shall we go first?”

 ***

A fair number of important personages spoke at the funeral of Siger Holmes. It was a strange mirror of the previous funeral of a Holmes parent. Violet’s had been similarly formal. Many people that didn’t traditionally live and work in Britain, foreigners with murky backgrounds, had come in to pay their respects. Like that day years ago too, it was the family that was suffering the most. But this time it was not out of stunned disbelief and anger. But regret and loss, accompanied by a strange kind of peace.

No one felt it more keenly than Violet, who had known him the longest, and the best. Mycroft too had felt a strong kinship to his father’s way of life, his hard line, and his principles. Only Sherlock wished he had seen who his father really was sooner. Not been resentful and bitter for so long.

It was raining that day. The cloudy sky casting a grim shadow on the proceedings. And people droned on and on about the diplomatic achievements of Siger Holmes after leaving the auror office, and about his exemplary work as an auror, and about his influence over foreign governments. But that wasn’t really _father_. Like the brilliant Violet Sherrinford’s funeral hadn’t been about _mother._

Only this time the quote on the gravestone was understood by all the Holmes’ and John. Chosen by Siger in life, in the event that he were to die. Written on a similar stone as the one atop Violet’s empty grave. Which, ironically enough, was still standing in the very same graveyard. Long after the other mourners had left they formed a little circle around it. Each trapped in their own thoughts. As the rain poured down upon them.

_Siger Holmes_

_January 9 th , 1964- December 12th, 2014_

_Beloved father_

_‘Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.’_

_\--Emily Dickinson_

“He hated poetry,” Violet sniffed, “But he saw the Goethe line in my will and had to have the last word. That ridiculous man.”

“You two cannot bicker beyond the grave,” Mycroft said wearily, “If you’ll excuse me. I have some final ministry business to wrap up.”

As he disappeared with a brief pop John coughed to catch Sherlock’s attention, “I’ll be at the castle,”

And when he too disapparated Sherlock found himself alone with Violet. For the first week or two since she had been back he had consciously been avoiding this. They had talked with other people around at great length. She had taken well to John. Yet even John and she had had more private conversations than he had with her. He wasn’t ready yet, he thought, to suddenly face a world where she was more substantial than a dream. More tangible than the nightmare of her loss.

“Sherlock?” she reached out to touch his cheek, “Shall we walk?”

She nestled her arm in the crook of his, and as they walked together about the graveyard a passing stranger would have thought them siblings. Young, tall, with dark curls. The same bright eyes.

“It’s strange that you’re so tall,” she remarked quietly, “You can hardly sit in my lap anymore.”

“I could try,” he smiled, “The result would not be ideal.”

“Not quite appropriate for a grown man no,”

They stopped walking as Sherlock turned to face her, “How…how could you do it? I’ll never understand…I-I needed you-I”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders, “I say it and I know it’ll never be enough. Not nearly enough for the pain I’ve caused you all. All for my selfish desires. My genius.”

“I-I thought maybe. That you didn’t-“

“How could I not love you?” she reached up and hugged him, beginning to cry, “I did. I do. More than anything, Sherlock. I was a fool to give that way. To give your childhood away like I did. A damned, damned fool.”

It felt strange for him. Her embraces like this. When he was suddenly larger than her. When before her arms had been so wide and she had been the world. Now it was almost as if they could comfort each other equally. He could meet her eyes without looking up.

“I forgive you,” he said softly.

“But I do not forgive myself,” she whispered into his ear as she squeezed him tighter.

“It takes a few years to let go,” he said into her hair, “And I didn’t always go about it the best way.”

“I know, I’ve read up on you young man, you’re in big trouble,”

He laughed, “I don’t think a time out ever stopped rampant experimentalism.”

She let go, her voice breaking and her eyes still brimming with tears, “I know. I just wish I could still be that for you. Because I wasn’t. I wasn’t when I should have been.”

“You’ll always have a special place in the mind palace mother. You always did.”

“I was supposed to tell you. Give you the message from your father. That youth is fleeting. To find happiness. That was his advice. You should know that it came from him.”

“He told me,” they resumed walking.

“In the end he was a good man. He made mistakes yes. But he cared for you two. I saw that.”

“I saw it too in the end,”

“Why have we stopped again?” she asked, then realized in shock they had stopped in front of her own grave, “Oh, Sherlock. Here it is.”

Violet crouched down beside it and traced her own name in horror. She sat there a few moments and then accepted Sherlock’s hand to get back up.

“You had to go to a funeral?”

“Of course,”

“Casket, eulogy—“

“Generally the entire deal,”

She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, “Oh dear god, what did I do, what did I to do…”

“For years afterward I couldn’t cast a Patronus,” he confessed.

“And now?”

“John taught me.”

“I like him. He loves you. He really does.” She admitted.

“I know.”

“He’ll never leave you. He’s not a selfish bastard.”

“Stop blaming yourself. That’s all I ever did.”

“How can I not blame myself?”

“Because you might not have been there. But you still were. Every experiment I did. Every theory I read. I thought of you. Everytime I felt that I was different I thought of all the things you told me. John helped me to let go of you, yes. But only because I was able to see that you were always, always a part of who I am.”

“I’m sorry I could not protect you,”

This time it was he who hugged her, “I don’t need to be protected anymore.”

“I’m just so, so sorry,”

He ran his hand up and down her back soothingly, “At least now I can comfort you,”

“You’re a good son, Sherlock,”

“Whatever time we had together, you were a great mother,”


	35. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the story is: startrekto221B can write you plot, character development, and hella fluff, but cannot write smut to save her life. Yet she tried, and totally deserves credit for that. This has been a PSA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end...

John had been looking forward to this all summer. Moving day. All his robes from Hogwarts had been swapped out for suitable muggle clothing. Sherlock had laughed at the jumpers but John would be sure to point out that it was for his own benefit, as the man did have the tendency to fall asleep on John whenever they watched muggle television together. John though had been quite pleased at Sherlock’s attire, Sherlock in those well-cut suits really took his breath away. Then again though, even after all this time, Sherlock always took his breath away.

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be _needing_ two bedrooms,” Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, pointed out.

Sherlock did not meet his eye, awkwardly glancing at his shoes, so John made the decision for him, “Oh we’ll be fine with just the one, Sherlock can have the second for his…scientific equipment.”

When she was out of earshot Sherlock laughed, “I seem to recall quite specifically that you said you were never sleeping with me again. That apparently I make the worst bed partner imaginable.”

“What makes you think we’ll actually be sleeping?” John said nonchalantly and watched Sherlock turn beet red.

“I suppose I’ll just be getting some more of my things then,”

“I suppose you should, I’ll do it better than I did the night of the Yule Ball,”

“Nothing actually happened the night of the Yule Ball,”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t imagining it,”

“Maybe I was for a bit,”

“After the kiss?”

“My mind was singularly focused on you the entire night and every night afterward,”

“You don’t have to keep flirting with me Professor, I’ve already agreed to move in with you,”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was stating a fact.”

***

John eyed Sherlock fidgeting nervously on the bed, “We don’t have to do this tonight, or any night, if you don’t want to,”

“No I do, I want, with you. If you would want-um. With me that is,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John sat beside him and grasped his hand, “Let’s just talk about it,”

“I just feel like I should know more about this. I am a good bit older than you after all. So logically it makes sense that I should be the more experienced of the—“

“Why should that even matter?”

“It matters to people, it makes sense that it should matter, for an optimum experience, other factors taken into account,”

“Sherlock the only factor that I care about in this is _you_ , and just for your information, everything involving you has always been an optimal experience, besides I’ve seen what you can do with your hands, your wandwork, I find it hot just when you cast spells at people,”

Sherlock blushed, “I wouldn’t be so sure that ability translates quite well into this domain,”

“You berk, after all we’ve been through you think I would leave you for being a bad shag?”

“John, I don’t really know how I can explain this, but no one’s ever wanted all of this before. All of me. I grew up as the freak. I’m still a virgin. No one’s ever…no one’s ever come close to wanting—“

“Well I do, but only if you’re going to be comfortable with it,”

“You would never hurt me,” Sherlock said suddenly, as if it was a deduction that had just popped into his mind.

“I wouldn’t even dream of it, Professor,” John pushed Sherlock up against the wall and kissed him.

They continued like this for a few moments, John kneading his hands through Sherlock’s hair then snaking his right underneath Sherlock’s shirt, stroking his back as he deepened the kiss, pushing further into Sherlock’s space. John worked the buttons of Sherlock shirt after looking for the requisite small nod, and found himself marveling yet again how unbelievably hot Sherlock really was.

“This is really unfair,” he said aloud between kissing Sherlock’s neck, trailing down to his collarbone.

“What is?”

“You, it might have been better if you had a mole or something,”

“So sorry to disappoint you, I may have a tattoo of sorts on the back of my upper leg,”

“What of?” John said, “Mind if I see it?”

“If that was a smooth method of trying to get me out of my trousers then it was a complete failure, it was of the chimaera,”

“Clearly not a complete failure,” John kissed his stomach, “As you're currently not wearing trousers, and you little show off you actually got a tattoo of a chimaera, in this of all places,”

“It was originally the mark its claw made on me, I had it altered,”

“My hero,” John smiled as he resumed their frantic snogging at the wall, “I expected nothing less.”

A few months ago he would never have imagined this happening. Him dying for Professor Holmes. Or him snogging Professor Holmes, who was currently in his underwear, pushed up against a wall, in the flat they lived in together in the center of London. Both implausible scenarios. That had since come true.

He would have scarcely imagined the strangely intimate feeling a few minutes later, as a completely naked Sherlock, whose exposed hard on was rubbing against John’s clothed on, led John back to the bed, divested him of his lovely new jumper and trousers, and said, “oh god John just take me right here,”

Sherlock for his part had been dutifully memorizing the way John liked to be kissed. The way John liked to be touched in various places, a repertoire that was growing broader by the minute. Once on the bed he catalogued even how he himself liked to be touched, as John licked at his nipples, and as John grabbed at his bare arse and as John did wonderful, wonderful things with his mouth and with his hands that were just getting more and more difficult to numerically quantify or categorize. If kissing John had been entering the sun’s corona then this was what it was to be inside the nuclear fusion of the star. A million degrees Celsius. John was the Universe, and he was stretching time and space, as he stretched Sherlock with first one finger and then two. John was heaven itself, and Sherlock saw the stars and the garden of Eden and the godly realm of the Olympians as John pushed his fingers in and out, the squelch of the lubricant humanizing a moment that was otherwise pure otherworldly ecstasy.

John only looked more for the final nod before entering him. And that was when all cataloguing, memorizing, and otherwise mental noting was altered from its slow crawl to a screeching halt. For a few seconds there was no mind palace. No rush of thoughts. Only John. The sun. Inside him, his other hand on his hard cock. Time had stopped.

“You are a star that went supernova and became a black hole,” Sherlock said, breathing heavily as John withdrew.

“What? Oh, Sherlock, you felt so good, you are amazing,” John said, leaning back on the bed beside him.

“Damn,” Sherlock cursed suddenly.

“What now?”

“We should have actually done this the night of the Yule Ball,”

“I was barely comfortable kissing you, let alone putting my cock up your arse,”

“Minor problem,” Sherlock laughed.

And then they were both laughing. And they couldn’t stop.

“John I still haven’t told you the thing properly, I may have yelled it rather obscenely when you were in me but I hardly think that counts,” Sherlock said thoughtfully when they got quiet again. 

“You don’t have to tell me you love me Sherlock, I never actually told you,”

Sherlock was quiet a few moments so John turned him on his side and grasped him by the shoulders, “Does it need saying?”

“I knew. When you did. What it was that you were willing to do for me.”

“I had to. I love you, Sherlock, god help me,”

“I suppose there’s only one thing left for me to say,”

John waited expectantly only for Sherlock to ask, “Was all of this worth those fifty points I returned to you for being late to class?”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, the times of the Seeker and the Sociopath, what do you have to say to that?”

Sherlock pondered the question a moment, then it sunk in, he understood, “Oh John, I love you too,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of The Seeker & The Sociopath. I've really enjoyed writing this. Their journey together. And will sincerely miss it. Maybe I'll even miss it enough to update someday with a flashforward to their wedding, or a window into Mycroft and Mummy traveling if I ever feel the need to return to the universe I created here. Though probably not for a long, long while. Thanks everyone for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I.


	36. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eighteen years later, Sherlock and John go to King's Cross station.

_Eighteen years later_

Sherlock leaned towards him in the car, “We could have just apparated there you know.”

“Too conspicuous,” John replied curtly from the drivers seat, “Besides, first drive to Kings Cross Station is an important experience. Nick will always remember it.”

At the mention of his name, Nick, who had been quiet up to that point for the entire car ride, perked up, “Dad’s right Papa, apparating is more efficient.”

“Going on a broomstick is also more fun, but we can’t do that either, because…” John waited for his son to finish the sentence.

“Muggles don’t notice squat but Uncle Mycroft is annoying and makes us hide our powers,” Nick smiled.

“That’s my son,” Sherlock smirked.

“What I was looking for,” John glared, “Is the Ministry requires us to maintain a level of secrecy about magic.”

“Dad says Uncle Mycroft is the ministry,” Nick pointed out.

“Yeah Papa,” Violet said suddenly, taking her thumb out of her mouth.

“Yes well,” John gave up, which is often what he had to do now that there were four Holmes’ in the house, and pretending to be concentrating on traffic.

“You two won’t embarrass me will you?” Nick asked suddenly.

“Certainly not,” Sherlock said, “What could possibly be embarrassing about your father being the potions master, and head of Ravenclaw House as well, and Papa’s not half bad either, retired professional Quidditch player teaching Quidditch,”

“Yes, both of your gay minor celebrity parents being professors at your school, can’t see anything wrong with that at all,” John chimed in, “People say what they say, Nick, and I can’t promise you everyone will be nice, but you can’t let it get to you,”

“People are idiots,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“That too,” John agreed.

John parked the car and they walked to the station together. Six year old Violet clutched John’s hand, while Nick walked on his other side. Sherlock carried Charlotte, who was only one, and had long since fallen asleep.

Nick loaded his own luggage onto the trolley along with a birdcage holding a huge Great Horned Owl.

“When I go, you should send me to Beauxbatons,” Violet said suddenly.

“Oh?” John asked.

“I like their uniform better,” Violet declared.

“That’s a stupid reason,” Nick snapped.

“Not stupider than you,” Violet said in a sing song voice.

“Not today,” John said, “Come on. We’ve all been looking forward to it for so long.”

“Going to study at Hogwarts at last,” Nick said a tad bit smugly.

“I get his room!” Violet said brightly.

“We all have our reasons,” John said, “And Vi, you’re really that excited about having your own room in the dungeons?”

“It’s fascinating,” she remarked, “But if Dad had taught astronomy we could have had rooms in the Astronomy Tower,”

“A lot of things might have turned out differently,” Sherlock smiled, catching John’s eye for a moment, “Eh, John?”

“I can’t believe you,” Nick said, turning around and laughing, “Falling in love with a Professor,”

“It’s his fault, he’s older, he should know better,” John said.

“Dad doesn’t know better, he still keeps body parts in the fridge,” Violet giggled and Sherlock gave her a light smack.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll keep him in line,” John said.

“You can go ahead,” Sherlock said, “We’ll come later and sit in the Professor’s cabin,”

“That way you can make some friends before your Dad makes any unfortunate comments,” John laughed.

“Alright,” Nick said, “You’re going to be watching the sorting right?”

“Pick Ravenclaw,” Sherlock said, “Hone your mind. Develop the science of deduction.”

“Let him pick what he wants,” John said.

“Ravenclaw,” Sherlock whispered to him, “But Papa’s right, I’m only being selfish. If you were in Ravenclaw I’d be your head of house.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Nick said seriously, then strode through the barrier between platforms 9 and 10.

“There he goes, Nicholas Siger Watson-Holmes, off to conquer the world,” John glanced at his husband.

“He’ll be fine, and we’ll be there,” Sherlock said.

“He’s just like you,” John said softly.

“What do you expect, it’s DNA,”

“You think we should have found other work this year?”

“No, we belong at Hogwarts, Violet loves it, Charlotte doesn’t know the difference but she will, and we’ll always have summer in 221B, that’s the only logical conclusion,”

“If you say so Professor,” they went through the barrier quietly.

“Careful there, Mr. Watson, I could dock points for cheek,”

“Watson-Holmes,” Violet interjected, and right at that moment, Charlotte stirred and began to cry.

“Your patronus,” John said, “It always makes her laugh.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said, “Expecto Patronum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't planning on adding to this, but I got a cute idea for an epilogue based on the one our queen Rowling wrote for Deathly Hallows.


	37. Ravenclaw Sherlock Fanart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some fanart I made of Ravenclaw Sherlock at Hogwarts because I was thinking of this fic. :)


End file.
